


The Mysteries of Marcie Fleach: Chapter 9-The Maze of the Lab Rat

by Sketchpad



Series: The Mysteries Of Marcie Fleach [9]
Category: Scooby Doo! Mystery Incorporated (TV 2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sketchpad/pseuds/Sketchpad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcie discovers new troubles when two strangers come to Crystal Cove. One, to hunt her down, and the other, to protect her. But will they both be too much for her to handle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Clue Cruiser sat in the parking lot, one Sunday afternoon, while its owner marched through the crowded grounds of Fleach's Folly Factory. Once she zeroed in on the location of her destination, Marcie proceeded, with earnest, towards the head office of the park and its owner, one Winslow Fleach.

Each step, she believed, brought her a little closer to the truth. Each step was a statement of loyalty to the business, an avowal of fidelity to the family, and, admittedly, a declaration of filial defiance. After all, Marcie was a Fleach, as well. She might not have had as much interest in the running of the park as her father would have wished, but it was still theirs.

She stepped out of the elevator and walked with a combination of purpose and slight trepidation. She had been 'banned' from the park, whatever that meant, and she was determined to know why.

Why she was treated this way? She wouldn't have minded to pay the penance, so much, if she just knew what the crime was.

Marcie reached the door of the head office and knew that once she opened it, the answers would come to her, no matter how painful or uncomfortable to the uncovering would have been. She would see to that.

With a shaky breath, Marcie opened the head office door, expecting to be thoroughly chewed out by her father for this disobedience. What she didn't expect to see was Mr. Greenman standing by Winslow's desk, while her father sat with sadness etched deep in his face, signing something on a sheet of paper.

She was puzzled by the tableau, and if she didn't know any better, she would have thought that her father had just signed away his soul.

The sound of the opening door and her footsteps alerted both men, and they stopped to regard her. One, amusedly, the other, sternly, if ashamedly.

"Marcie! What are you doing here?" Winslow scolded. "I told you that you weren't allowed to come back here!"

"Why, Dad?" she asked him, boldly. "And why is Mr. Greenman here?"

"Why, I'm here to claim ownership of this quaint little amusement park of his," said Greenman, in a pleasant manner. "Granted, I have seen bigger and better in my time, but you know what they say in real estate. Location, location, location."

Every other word sifted through Marcie's mind, except one that almost made her queasy. "Ownership? Is that what you were signing, Dad?"

"Signed, actually," Greenman corrected, calmly taking the sheet of paper from Winslow's desk, folding it and slipping neatly into his coat pocket for safe keeping. "The transaction is already done, but, please, feel free to walk the grounds and take one last look at the place. I'm a businessman, true, but I'm still sentimental about these things."

Marcie ignored him and turned her attention to her tortured-looking father. "Dad, what's he talking about?"

As much as Winslow wanted to hang his head low before he spoke, he knew that his daughter deserved to know the truth, and so, he held it level, but couldn't keep his voice from wavering. "I...didn't want you to come back because I didn't want you to know that...I...had to sign the park to him. I'm sorry, dearest."

Marcie dismissed all of the emotionality she was being exposed to, and focused, almost robotically, on trying to solve the problem at hand. " _Had_ to sign. You mean that you were forced to."

She then turn her attention back to Greenman, with suspicion. "Did you have something to do with this?"

She expected him to lie, to be evasive, and make her work for her confession, but he simply shrugged and said, "Guilty, but I couldn't have done it without the best little spy I ever found. You."

_That_ was also unexpected. "Me? What are you talking about? What did I do?"

"Why, you gave me all the information I could ever want about your father's establishment," he gloated. "The condition of its rides, the quality of its food..."

_'He's lying,'_ she thought. _'He_ has _to be.'_ "I never said any of that!" she defended herself against him, and possibly, to Winslow, as well.

But her father only shook his head, slowly. "Honey, he had your voice on tape," he said. "He played it back for me, and said that if I didn't sign, he'd use what you said as evidence to sue me. We don't have the kind of money needed to survive this."

"Especially, with that near-accident from the tilt-a-whirl's damaged speed governor," Greenman added with a smile. "It was that, or poor Winslow would have been sued by me."

"Sued?" There was that word again, corrosive and litigious in this room. Marcie was truly starting to hate it. "What for? Were you even on the ride when it broke down?"

Again, Greenman shrugged. "I might have."

_'For a businessman, he sure sounded like a lawyer,'_ she thought. But she wasn't done, yet.

"By the way, how did you know that it was the _speed_ _governor_ that gave out? That's a pretty specific guess, I'd say," Marcie countered. "I only told Dad about that when I checked under the ride and saw that other ride being put up, The Rolling Boulder."

Greenman straightened his already imposing frame with pride. "Ah, so you've seen it, have you? The newest attraction to _my_ park. Taller and more fun than any of those other rides. I hope you and your father get a chance to ride it one day. You wouldn't have to pay. My treat."

"No thanks," Marcie growled under her breath, then she fired another question at him. "Where did your men take our tilt-a-whirl? I saw them haul it out of here when they put up that eyesore of yours."

"Oh, well, since it's my tilt-a-whirl, now, I had it broken up for scrap and delivered to the town junkyard, where it will never harm another living soul," Greenman explained, self-righteously.

_'Rats!'_ she thought. _'I, at least, had some evidence of tampering, but now...'_ Then, she realized something else. "You! You tampered with the tilt-a-whirl, didn't you?" Greenman's half-hidden smile told her all she needed.

She stepped past him and faced her father to make her appeal, to make him understand. "You see, Dad? It was all a scam. He sabotaged your ride, so he'd scare you into signing away the park."

Greenman stood behind Marcie, casting a shadow that fell over her, as he considered her for a moment. The gods were right to counsel him about her. Her strength was of the mind and in her hands, and he would do well to be wary of them.

"You _are_ a good detective, aren't you?" he conceded to her, mockingly. He then glanced over to Winslow. "You know, she's right, of course. It's true."

"What?" Winslow asked, confused. "That she's a good detective?" He didn't think she did anything like that and a concern began to color his expression.

"No, that I tricked you like ancient Pan into giving your business away," Greenman corrected him.

"Oh," Winslow said, breathing a little easier, his concern for Marcie doing such dangerous things, fading, despite that fact that he was losing his park. "But, why, Greenman? Why"

"'Why, Greenman? Why?'" Greenman chuckled, answering his prey's question, as if Winslow had asked him what was the importance of air. "Because you wouldn't sell the place to me when I asked you nicely in the past. At some point, I had to let the businessman come out. That's me, today. All business," he said with empty smile.

Again, Marcie ignored Greenman's taunts and focused on getting her father to focus on saving the park. "Dad, we can fight this. This park's been in the family for years. It's up to us to protect it for the Fleaches of the future."

This time, her father did hang his head low. "If I could be fooled this easily, Marcie, then that proves that I'm not capable of handling the responsibility anymore, and since you're not interested in taking the reins of the company, it's over."

"But, Dad-" she pressed.

"I said, It's over."

Marcie grew silent. She wouldn't argue with her father. He had given up the fight, out of shame, so she turned to face a pleased Greenman, fists balled.

Here, was this mystery man who breezed into town, and brought about all of this. She wanted to punch his smug English face inside-out, but anger in seeing her father being broken down like a math problem had her settle on stepping up to the man…and slapping his face, instead.

His head hardly moved from the strike, but for Marcie, the pent-up frustrations of the past few months went away in an instant, and she felt a little better for giving the large man some measure of punishment, even if she almost doubled over from the pain of slapping something the hardness of half-frozen beef.

"My dad might have given up, but _I'll_ figure out what you're doing here in Crystal Cove," Marcie vowed, while trying to shake the ache from her hand. "And why you want my dad's park so bad, and when I do, you'll regret messing with my family."

Greenman's rebuttal was simply a chuckle and a shrug before telling a stunned Winslow, "Your daughter has more spine than you. Remember that." Then, he left the two of them, alone, to reflect on what happened in the office.

Winslow's eyes were still as wide as golf balls, as he looked in shock at Marcie, while she stood where she was, staring holes in the closed office door.

"Marcie..." he scolded in a whisper. "He could sue us for that."

Marcie, her blood flowing hot and righteous from her striking Greenman, glanced over to her father, in annoyance, saying, "Don't tell me. I'm still banned from the park, right?"

* * *

Greenman was not used to standing on ceremony, but stood he did in the quiet man's dim, tastefully appointed office. His host sat in a plush high-backed chair with his back to him. The very fact that he presented his back to him was insolence enough to have him killed on the spot, in the old days.

But, Greenman renewed his patience with a low sigh and realized that these were not the old days. Not yet, at any rate. Where he toyed with the Fleaches earlier in their office, like a cruel child with an oft-abused plaything, here, he had to swallow his pride. He needed the man because, incredibly, he had resources that even Greenman lacked, and Greenman was a man who lacked for very little in his business and personal life.

"We have time technology that we acquired from our good friends at Sundial," he told the host.

"It figures that you would get it. I looked all over this provincial town and found nothing, so, I suppose congratulations are in order, but since you have T.H.R.O.B.A.C, what do you need from me, Mr. Greenman?" the host asked him. "All of space-time is your oyster."

"We're having trouble...getting it to work," Greenman patiently negotiated, finding that he was gritting his perfectly maintained teeth. It was galling beyond belief to beg for this man's help, and for the host to _know_ that he was begging. "The Wacky Racers and The Rotten Racers may have did more damage to the robot's Hour Tower core than we realized."

"Indeed," the host casually said, as if Greenman was stating the painfully obvious. Then, said nothing again, and Greenman was getting sick of staring at the back of his chair.

"I was hoping that you could take a look at the ruins we gathered," Greenman continued. "See what sense you could make of it." Again, silence.

This was insufferable. _'The people of this time,'_ he thought, bitterly. _'No respect for their betters. That will change, gods willing. It will be a paradise on this earth, when I am done.'_

"If you can't repair it, then, perhaps, you can reverse-engineer it to make another time machine."

"Perhaps." the host said with thoughtful slowness. "However, all I've heard, so far, is _your_ wants and needs. What do you think I am, sir? Santa Claus?"

For the first time in a very long time, Greenman was thrown. Not being in control was something he dislike, greatly, and for a moment, he feared that this meeting would dissolve into hot failure. "I-I don't understand. What do you mean?"

An arm from the host came out and gave Greenman's urgency a dismissive, lazy wave. "You come into my office, interrupting the kind of critical, global endeavors that have made me legend in the scientific field, and not once, _not once_ , have you offered me something in return," he chastised. "A trinket? A greeting card? A boon? A favor to be called upon at some future date? Nothing. Nothing at all to trade."

"But I never said-"

"Mr. Greenman, you claim to be a great businessman with years of experience..."

_'More than you could ever know,'_ Greenman thought, darkly, rewarding himself with a smirk for knowing something that his great and gracious host didn't know, yet.

"And yet, you try to negotiate with nothing to give in, at least, good faith. Some businessman." The arm slowly went down behind the chair as a point of finality to this meeting. "I trust you know the way out?"

"I may know more than you think," Greenman announced, with a cool steel to the voice. "The scientific field that you boast to be a legend in, has named you over the years, pariah, outcast, and because you tried to steal Sundial's technology in the past, and failed, criminal. And so, you've been forced to use your wealth to hide and scheme in a world that you say respects you."

Greenman waved dismissively at the office. "Here, in this hidden, cliffside base, in your secret laboratories scattered here and there in the United States and Europe. And, most tragically, in your own heart. Oh, yes. The reason for your obsession with time travel is quite known to me. The death of your-"

The arm shot up from the chair, its hand holding up a forefinger in a gesture of peace. Greenman said nothing more. He knew that business was war, and that he had won.

"I...will have my people work on this tech you've brought me. If this is truly Sundial technology, then they _will_ succeed, even if I have to work on it, myself."

Seeing his host rolling up the sleeves of his expensive shirt and getting busy with his underlings gave Greenman a private chuckle. "It may not come to that, if your people are as competent as you claim. Only that you get the T.H.R.O.B.A.C in complete working order for me. Now, as you know, I am very influential and superwealthy-"

"I don't need to know your resume, Mr. Greenman. I already know that you're rich and have a lot of pull with people. That is the _only_ reason we are talking in my...hidden, cliffside base."

"Very well, then," he offered, fearlessly. "Name your price." If it was to be money, he figured, then, he could pay a king's ransom ten times over for a working time machine. It would have been a pittance compared to the victory he would obtain before too long.

It wasn't to be money, however.

"My price is utilization of the time machine, as well. Repairing a time machine, in exchange for its use. I believe that is an equitable trade, Mr. Greenman."

Greenman nodded. He could always have him killed later. "Excellent. Shall we get started?"

"I've already told my engineers and technicians to prepare," the host assured him. "Will that be all, Mr. Greenman?"

"Almost," Greenman said, lightly stroking the cheek where that impudent girl Marcie had stuck him. He wanted to have her killed, as a matter of course, because his gods warned him of the possible threat she posed. Now, he wanted her father punished for her rash actions. Killing her was a good way to do that. "If you wouldn't mind, could you to get rid of someone for me?"

"Mr. Greenman," the host said, evenly. "I'm not an assassin."

"Even if it's just a girl?"

The host sighed at this new demand, but acquiesced. "Very well. My prototype does needs a field test. Name?"

"Marcie Fleach." He felt good saying her name as a way of signing her death sentence.

Feeling that everything was satisfactory to the host's liking, he slowly began to rotate his chair to face Greenman, finally.

In the dim, atmospheric light of the office, his well-cut hair and goatee shone a blazing red, and his eyes were fixed in a perpetually thoughtful scowl. The suit, a deep black number with almost hair-thin stripes of red running vertically down its surface, along with a matching crimson, silk necktie, was tailored to within an inch of its existence, fitting the man so well, it seemed as though he was born into it.

The prospect of being able to change his personal history, not to mention, the world's, made the man chuckle with scientifically, malevolent intent, before reaching over his office desk and shaking Greenman's hand to seal, what could literally be called, the deal of the centuries.

"Mr. Greenman, it seems that you only wanted the best. Fortunately for you," boasted the evil Doctor Benton Quest. "You have it."


	2. Chapter 2

The father tried to wave down another car to stop and help him get back into his car, which was parked off to one side of the three miles of road that threaded its way between Gatorsburg and Crystal Cove.

The fact that he was locked out of his car at high noon didn't concern him, as much as having his baby daughter die in the backseat, due to heat stroke, did.

Fear of losing his child and fear of what his wife and family would do to him, afterwards, gave the terrified man the impetus he needed to attempt to yell and wave down another passing car, with tired arms.

Desperately, he thought of lying in the middle of the road, hoping that a driver would see him in time to stop, if not out of a desire to help, then, for the moral imperative of not turning him into a human speed bump.

He had already looked for a stone heavy enough to shatter the window of the front passenger side, but there were none to be found in all of the pine-wooded grassland on either side of the road. So, taking a deep breath, he slowly marched out onto the tarmac and rested. It felt like resigning himself to an execution, which was what was going to happen, whether he reclined on the road, or not.

The vibrations and the engine sound of an oncoming vehicle were being felt through his body, and he prayed that it would stop when the driver saw him, as they got louder and louder.

He gritted his teeth and imagined the car not stopping in time, turning his body into proverbial road kill. Such a thought made his nerves overstimulate and were on the verge of cracking.

When the car was, in the man's estimation, close enough to run him over, his nerve finally broke, and he screamed out his fear and his parental failure to the heavens, before the car stopped a good three yards from his feet.

He clenched his eyes shut preparing for the end, but instead of bones crunching and tendons shredding, he heard a woman asking, "Are you alright, mister?"

He opened his eyes to a curious thing. The woman, who stepped out of a blue car, wore a strange ensemble of dark pink boots, lighter pink tights, a white leotard, an open lab coat, and pink-lensed goggles.

"Uh, hello?" the man said. Courtesy was important, after all.

"Do you need any help, citizen?" the woman asked, after she gave what could only be described as a superheroic pose, complete with arms akimbo, the wind gently tousling her brown hair.

Then, he remember why he looked like a suicide attempt. "Oh, yeah! my baby girl's trapped in the car. I locked myself out when I went to relieve myself. Please, do you have something in your car that'll break the passenger window?"

The woman followed the man, who jogged to the car, and when she reached it with him, she said, jauntily, "No, but I do have something in…my lab coat!" She then reached into the garment.

She pulled out a bulb syringe, went to the passenger window, and squeezed a thin line of clear gel around the periphery of the window. If one looked close enough, the gel could be seen to be eating through the glass it was applied to. A few seconds later, the center section of window that was cut away from the gel, cleanly fell onto the front passenger seat as a single pane.

The man had just seen a scientific miracle played out before him, and could hear the cooing of his daughter, who didn't feel worse for wear.

"How...What was that?" he asked, incredulously.

The woman gave a proud grin and said, while pocketing the syringe, "Liquid glass cutter. Is your baby safe?"

"Yes! Yes, she is. Thank you. Thank you."

"Now, could you help _me_ , citizen?" she asked.

He brightened at the request. "Anything you want."

"Are there any good hotels in Crystal Cove?"

He found it a strange request for an even stranger woman, but he honored it. "Yes. Try downtown."

"Thank you!" And with that, she ran back to her car and started the engine. Putting the car into gear, she began to pull away, but the man managed to call her before she passed him completely.

"Wait!" he asked. "Who are you?"

The woman stopped the car one more time, flashed her grin, and said, "Call me...Lab Rat!"

The blue car drove down the road, while the man with the rescued baby and marriage, pondered, "Lab Rat..."

* * *

The gentleman walked over to the gallery of public computers in the Crystal Cove Public Library and, when he found an unoccupied seat, sat down and booted up the computer he was assigned to.

Instead of going online, however, he stiffened one thumb and flipped opened its nail. The insertion end of a flash drive extended out, which he surreptitiously jabbed it one of the PC's USB ports. After entering its phishing program, he disconnected from the port. The monitor flickered for a moment, then image of a giant green Q appeared, along with a small bar representing the program's progress filled in seconds.

With a quiet tone, the gentleman was alerted to the success of the program. From the library files it raided, the photo, name and address of Marcie Fleach was displayed, along with any books and media she had checked out over the years.

With a quick, satisfied look, he retained her data into his memory. He logged out and was preparing to stand and begin his rather short hunt for the girl, when he felt the restraining hand of a guard on his shoulder.

"Hey. You do know that the library has a policy against using the computers in an unauthorized manner. It's obvious that you've done that. So, I'll have to escort you out and tell that you are not allowed to back here again."

The gentleman looked calmly at the hand still holding him, then said, "That's okay. I was on my way out."

He grabbed the guard by the wrist, pulled him off of his feet and flung him forward into the backs of other computer-using patrons. He then stood up and left the computer area, yet, also attracting more guards.

The patrons who witnessed the brouhaha, backed or ran away from the man who stopped his walk to assess the issue.

_'Four guards, lightly armed with billyclub and baton melee weapons,'_ he thought. _'Surrounding in a diamond pattern to prevent escape. Since no other guards are present, combat estimation: this is the building's entire security force, also counting the man that was incapacitated earlier. Tactic: non-lethal. Aikido.'_

He reached over to the closest guard, and with a whirlwind of arm motions, disarmed and knocked him senseless with his weapon. The other three cautiously moved in, baton and billyclubs brandished. With another flurry of arm movements, he disarmed and disabled the guards, either smashing them in the kneecaps, or simply rendering them unconscious.

With the people's only protection moaning on the floor or just lying on it, the library's patrons gave the gentleman was very wide berth, as he strolled out of the doors of the building and into local urban legend.

* * *

Marcie and Jason left with the other students from Mrs. Vogler's math class. In the crowded hallway, Jason asked, "Hey, Marcie, can I bum a ride of you? I lied to my mom about it, but I don't have enough money for carfare."

"Why did you lie to her?"

"I didn't want her to think that I didn't appreciate money. I do. I...just forgot that I spent most of my allowance on a new Hunter X action figure. Sorry, " he answered, looking a tad sheepish.

"Fine. You can come, but I have to make a stop first."

Jason looked pensive "A stop? Can't you just drop me off at home, first?"

"Do you mind? What am I saying? Of _course_ , you don't mind. I mean, what would be the alternative? You walking home?" she said, with just a hint of sarcasm

A hint that he could taste. "Geez, Marcie. You don't have to be _that_ way about it," he sulked.

* * *

The trip took a little longer than Jason was used to, and it wasn't until he saw the mountain range of junk and scrap metal up ahead, that he knew that he might be coming a little late.

"Why are going to the town dump?" he asked.

"Because I have to find something crucial to my family name and honor. Something that will exonerate the good and noble name of Fleach."

That sounded intriguing to Jason. A quest, an adventure. "What is it? A family heirloom? A keepsake?"

"Nope. It's the sabotaged speed governor of my dad's tit-a-whirl."

With the spell broken, Jason deadpanned, "Wow, that's pretty deep, Marcie."

"I'm serious, Jason. That six-foot rat Greenman-"

"The guy who invited you to dinner at his house?" Jason asked, perking up at the thought of food.

"Only _you_ would remember anything that had to do with dinner, Jason," she sighed, then continued. "Yes, the guy who invited me to dinner. Anyway, he wrecked one of the rides, and is taking my dad's park away. I'm not going to let that happen, if I can help it. That sabotaged part can help put Greenman away and leave my dad alone."

The Clue Cruiser passed through the fenced gateway of the scrap yard, then stopped when Marcie saw Red and Daisy waiting for them.

"This isn't some all-day deal, is it, Marcie?" Red moaned. "I don't mind a good parts raid, but I've got stuff to do at the garage. Beside, it's taken everything I've got to keep Miss Blake, here, from running crazy."

Daisy waved his grousing away in a rather unconvincing imitation of someone who _didn't_ refuse _refuse,_ as her other sisters would say to tease her. "Oh, Red, you and your exaggerations. I'm fine, and I promise that I won't go crazy, here."

"Spoken like a true attic addict," Red said, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"I'm with you, guys. Really," Daisy maintained. "In fact, I talked with the lot's owner. He said that a truck did dump a lot of parts from something big, a little while ago."

"Was that before you asked him if he wanted to sell the place, or after?" Red asked her, as an aside.

Daisy threw up her hands "What? You would've made out just a good as I would, with free parts. Besides, I quoted him a good price, but he just wouldn't budge. Seeing this place, I guess I wouldn't blame him."

"Ugh, you sound like Greenman," Marcie grumbled.

"Who?"

"You know," Marcie sighed in reminding. She couldn't believe that they would forget a man that she just casually mentioned a mere month or so, ago. "That guy who's been pressuring my father to sell his park? Well, guess what, guys, he finally succeeded through a brilliant combination of lies, sabotage and trickery. The American business model in action, folks, and he's not even American. He's English. Anyway, we're burning daylight. Let's get moving."

The gang strolled through what passed for an entrance to the junkyard proper. Where Red saw potential for rare automotive parts, Jason, seeing a possible opportunity for electronic components from e-trash, and Marcie focused on finding the speed governor, Daisy walked into the lot, trembling with a reverence reserved only for the truly devout.

Everywhere she looked, there were possibilities that she didn't even consider, just by staring at the different piles of refuse. Mountains of scrap metal, warehouses of parts and collected glasswork, from car and various machine parts to vintage vehicle headlamps, windshields, Mason jars, ancient lamps, and classic soda bottles.

Several lifetimes of sculptures, both stationary and kinetic, and furniture could be built from the quantity and quality of the junk, alone. She gazed again at the lovely trash. All of it, resilient and simply waiting to be transformed by _her_ talented hand.

Spotting a pair of disc brakes from a truck, Daisy sidled up to Red from behind and seductively wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders.

"You know, big guy," she said, whispering in his ear. "I could make you a really good set of weights with those disc brakes I saw back there."

The thrill of her touch was enough to stop him from walking further. His heart banged so hard in his broad chest, it felt to burst. She really didn't need to convince him of the value of this place, but he wasn't going to debate the issue.

"Uh, tell you what, Daisy," Red said, breathlessly. "If you can make one of those defibrillators from this stuff, I'd be really happy."

"Why's that?" she cooed.

"'Cuz, I think I might need it."

"Quit flirting back there," A determined Marcie, said. "We've got a part, or rather, a _part_ of a part, to find. Now, Greenman said that he took the tilt-a-whirl apart and brought the parts here, so, hopefully, the speed governor will be here, somewhere."

After walking past both hills and peaks of junk that were crowned with squadrons of ravenous sea gulls, the gang entered the area where the lot owner's staff placed the wreck of the amusement park ride.

Upon inspection, they noticed partially intact, yet detached, arms of octopus rides still attached to their rusting cars, the corroded platforms of other tilt-a-whirls from bygone days stacked upon each other, their cars removed and rotting away, some distance away.

The dented cars of roller coasters, their paint cracked and peeling had joined their numbers, collected in a pile next to them, all of it, now home to spiders, field mice and weeds.

Faded attraction signs, lined with broken light bulbs and compromised by years of exposure, stood along the periphery of the place, making it look like a gloomy, weather-beaten parody of a carnival.

This was nothing less than a small graveyard for derelict rides and signs from amusement parks past, and to those who could recognize the cars and other parts of those once-colorful corpses, like Marcie, who grew up around them, a bittersweet nostalgia would flow into them.

She looked away from her childhood memories and studied the stacks of dismantled tilt-a-whirl platforms. Peering at the cleaner of the haphazard towers, she noticed that, like the others, each sandwiched platform had various spaces underneath, made possible by the uneven machinery underneath them. A brave, if foolish, person could squeeze into those spaces to find the sought-after device.

"There's the tilt-a-whirl platforms, and I see mine!" Marcie announced, with a point to the familiar platform in the center of the newer stack. "I'll look through it."

"If what you're looking for isn't there, then, what does it look like?" Red asked.

Marcie explained its description, then said, "I'll tell you what it isn't, however. Intact. It was cut and broken away, so, I'll be looking for the base of the part."

The gang watched as Marcie began to carefully free-climbing up the pile of junk, like an ant on a stack of pancakes. Finding her ride, she squeezed into the steely spaces underneath, keenly aware of the self-inflicted deathtrap she put herself in. One bad bump or shove that shifted the angle of the platform she was working under, might bring the ones that rested precariously on top of it, to come down, to pin, or worse, crush.

"It'll be easier if this thing was electronic," Jason said from below. "These rides are all old-fashioned with all of this clockwork construction. Too many parts, if you ask me."

Red scoffed, "Hey, buddy. Don't bad-talk good, solid machinery. There was a time when there wasn't any of that fancy wiring and computer stuff. Gearwork was the way to go. Some of those machines are still working today, with just a little maintenance, and no electronics."

"Then why are we here?" Jason countered. "Look around. They weren't _all_ sabotaged to be where they are."

"It's because all things break down, you two," Marcie answered from within the platform. "It's a little thing called entropy, now, will you quit arguing?"

Marcie slithered, and then, swept her penlight across every gear, motor, bolt, and hydraulic pump, but when she reached the area where the governor was to be, she only found a light, bare spot where a speed governor was once bolted, in front of her.

In her frustration, Marcie thought, _'We can't give up, now. We've got to find what's left of that governor. We have to.'_

But, even she knew that she couldn't stay under the ride all evening, and so, in time, Marcie had to admit defeat under the setting sun, and crawl out of the platform.

Back on the ground, Marcie thought hard about what she could have missed.

"I don't understand," she said, baffled. "If Greenman said that he took it apart, then where's my part? Where is the governor?"

Then, a flash of brilliance went through her. "Wait...he _did_ take it apart. _Completely_. And he made sure that the remaining piece of the governor was taken…by him!"

"But why, Marcie?" Daisy asked.

"Because he knew I'd be looking for it." Marcie said, feeling morose. "I'm sorry I wasted your time, guys."

"That's okay," Jason said, then asked. "Hey, has anyone seen Daisy?"

The sound of feet running deeper into the junkyard answered that question for them.

"I knew it," Red muttered, shaking his head in disappointment. "I knew it."

"What?" Marcie asked the mechanic. "What did you know?"

"C'mon."

* * *

A howling cackle could be heard, echoing through the mountains of junk. However, the monotony of the heaps made it hard to pinpoint where the laughter was coming from.

It wasn't until Jason scanned the peak of one high pile of scrap, that he found the direct movement of a figure balancing on top of it.

The figure was clad in a tattered, oily cloak that loosely wrapped over the body and billowed slightly in the wind of the higher altitude. A hand with clawing fingers pointed accusingly at the people below.

"This is my world!" the voice, decidedly female, screeched to them. "I am the queen of the junkyard and every piece of scrap belongs to me, and me, alone. If you mortals wish to pass through my domain, then you'll have to pay a heavy toll." A curl of red hair peeked out from the hood of the cloak, making this odd person, immediately recognizable.

"Daisy?" Marcie called out. "Is that you? Come on down, will you? We have to move on."

The Queen replied with a proud chuckle. "There are no daisies in my garden, nerdy one, but my lands are the envy of the three kingdoms. Here, there is a picker's peace, one of purpose, creativity, and searching. Always searching..."

Marcie looked at Daisy, with concern. "Why is she acting this way?" she asked the others. "Is she hypnotized? Did the Ringleader return, somehow, to wreak vengeance?"

Of everyone there, only Red was nonplussed about the whole affair. "I've seen this before," he said, sounding like a veteran from some unnamed war. "One of my buddies went through this when we were parts raiding, one time."

"What is it?" asked Jason.

"She's junk drunk," Red said, simply, "She's not herself, right now."

Jason shook his head. "She's _what_?"

"Junk drunk. You know how she is around junk and stuff. She's a picker and a dumpster diver. This place is like paradise to her. She's like a kid in a candy story, and the longer she stays in here, the more junk drunk she'll get. But, she's pretty high up there. We better talk her down before she hurts herself."

"Agreed," Marcie concurred, then resumed her talk with Queen Daisy. "Uh, your majesty, what kind of toll must we pay to gain passage through your lands?"

Daisy gave the matter a royally, carefree hand. "Why, my dear, you must procure for me, a universal gear. It's size matters not, but I have a desire for it. I must have it. That is my payment."

"Okay..." Marcie fretted from that. With a lot this wide, finding a gear of any construction would be daunting. They only had so many hours of daylight left. Daisy had to come down and get sober from this.

"Hey, have you seen Red?" Jason asked, after being just as flummoxed about looking for this gear as Marcie was. Marcie glanced around, but could find no trace of the big fellow.

"Why do sit there, mortals?" asked the queen, amusedly. "Surely, the two of you could do what others could not. Find the gear and win your passage, or stay where you are, and face the terrible, hungry wrath of my...scrap dragon!"

With that, she pointed, imperiously, at a unmanned crane that stood several yards away.

Seeing the two remaining friends stay where they were, mentally formulating plans on how to get her down, Daisy gave a raucous laugh at their seeming indecision. "You are fools. I wasn't going to let you pass through my lands, even if you somehow found a universal gear. You will not enter, and you will not leave. By the time the sun sets, my scrap dragon will have eaten well."

This was punctuated by another laugh, before she was suddenly grabbed from behind. Two strong arms wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her side. She was swept up in the hug, and both figures rolled down the rusty mountainside, her arms still restrained.

Red quickly released Daisy before she crashed at the base of the junkpile, dazed. He then stood up, nearby, and dusted himself off.

"Where were you, Red?" Marcie chided him. "I thought you said that we should talk her down."

Red helped a mumbling, unsteady Daisy to her feet, and told them, "You guys were taking too long."


	3. Chapter 3

Marcie sat in a booth of the recently reopened _Chan's_ Coffee Internet Cafe and Tea House. She wondered for a moment if Detective Charlie Chan had a hand in the building's new management, then she struck it from her mind, rubbed her eyes and focused on the laptop in front of her.

Her hacking skills, she had to admit, were not the sharpest, considering she didn't have many reasons to hack, save the odd incursion into her high school's administrative system to monitor her grades, every so often.

Here, however, she thought of it as a hunt, and, as with any hunt, a huntress had to learn the habits of the prey. She knew that Greenman was wealthy, from what her father had told her of him, so, his local shopping would tell a lot about him. Hopefully, his address.

Crystal Cove didn't have its own version of Rodeo Drive, she knew, but an online map of businesses in Crystal Cove displaying a speckling of dots, showed the names and locations of a few restaurants and specialty stores that did cater to the wealthy, or even the superwealthy, as was the case, here. If Greenman went through the trouble of moving here, then he had to have shopped somewhere in town that appealed to his sense of refinement.

With a notepad and pen, Marcie jotted down the places and began a methodical search, starting with the restaurants.

The establishment's double doors opened and a woman clad in a pair of goggles, lab coat, leotard, tights and boots walked inside. She gave the interior a look. All of the booths were taken, except one, that was being occupied by one girl. She picked that one and moved in.

Arriving at the booth, the woman reached into the lower part of her lab coat and extracted a laptop, then sat down.

The sound of all of that made Marcie look up and have her gaze locked on the image sitting opposite her. Truly, she hadn't seen anyone like it.

"Cosplayer, huh?" Marcie asked, curious and wanting to be neighborly. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"I am Lab Rat," the woman said, not looking up from her open laptop.

Seeing that this strange woman didn't bother looking at Marcie when she spoke, Marcie brought her eyes back to her laptop. "Well, you're in the wrong place," she told her. "The convention center is downtown."

"I'm not here for some convention," Lab Rat said. "I'm looking for someone, someone who's in grave danger. Someone I have to protect."

"Well, this is a good place to start," Marcie said, wondering if this woman was a few apples short of a bushel. The last thing she needed was to get involved in this stranger's weird fantasy, so she closed her laptop and slid out of her side of the booth, heading for the exit.

An Asian man, who worked behind the café's counter, saw Marcie open the front doors and called out, "Hey, Marcie! What about that cocoa latte?"

Lab Rat raised her head immediately.

"Just put it on my tab, Chan!" the girl said, before leaving from the cafe.

The Clue Cruiser wasn't parked too far away, but before Marcie could reach it, a thin hand gripped her forearm.

"What the-" Marcie started, turning to the possible attacker.

"You!" Lab Rat asked her, earnestly. "Is your name Marcie... _Fleach_?"

Marcie wasn't too sure she should give any information to a loony like this one, but considering the chemical arsenal she normally carried with her, she was also confident that she could handle her.

"Yeah," she said, carefully. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to save your life, young one!"

Marcie gave her speech a quizzical look. Who spoke like that? Too flowery, too faux-heroic. Marcie gave Lab Rat a condescending smile, as a way to humor her and possibly defuse the scene.

"Okay...look," Marcie explained. "I've heard about larping and I'm sure it's fun, and all, but I have some work to do. So, if you don't mind, tell your buddies, who are probably hiding somewhere, that I'm not interested."

She hoped this would make the loony let go, but Marcie found that her grip had only tightened. Now, Marcie's mind ran through her selection of capsules and chemicals, wondering which one she should use to handle the crackpot.

Her decision made, she reached gradually into her jacket, and so, as not to alarm the woman, lied, saying, "You don't mind if get myself a mint, do you?"

"I'm not larping, and you don't understand," Lab Rat continued. "Dr. Benton Quest has put a hit out on you."

That news stopped Marcie's hand dead inside the jacket, and she laughed, incredulously, despite having her arm's circulation almost cut off. "You _are_ nuts! Dr. Quest? _The_ Doctor Quest? One of the greatest scientific minds of our time, is coming after me?"

Trusting that Marcie wouldn't run away, Lab Rat released the girl's arm and explained. "It's true, Marcie. He sent someone out to get you."

_'This is too much,'_ she thought, amusedly, then asked. "Really? And who is he?"

That simple question visibly stumped Lab Rat, and she humbly admitted, "Uh, well, I don't know what he looks like."

Marcie turned around to walk back to her car. "See ya."

"Wait! Wait!" Lab Rat beseeched. "I'm still telling the truth. I swear! Dr. Quest is trying to kill you."

Marcie stopped and thought. With all of the strange things she had been exposed to lately, why wouldn't this be any different? Sighing, she decided against all judgment to continue humoring this 'Lab Rat.'

"Okay, let's assume that, for all intents and purposes, you're telling me the truth," said Marcie. "Why would he be going after me? What did I do to _him_? I mean, I do think I'm a scientific wunderkind, myself, but not so much that _he'd_ be threatened by it."

"I don't know. All I've heard through the grapevine is that Quest is working with somebody here in town. Somebody with a lot of pull named...Greenfield? Greenfly?"

" _Greenman_?"Marcie couldn't believe the connection if it were true.

"I think so. Yes, Greenman. Do you know him?" Lab Rat asked.

"He's the one who's taking my father's park away. I've been looking for where he lives so I can find something that'll help me put him away for a long, long time. Are you looking for him, too?"

Lab Rat shook her head. "No, just you, and if you're thinking about breaking into Greenman's house, I'd advise against it. It's bad enough that Quest is after you, but you don't need this Greenman as an enemy, too."

For a loony, Marcie thought, she did have some good advice, but it wouldn't save her father's amusement park. "He's already an enemy. Look, thanks for letting me know about Dr. Quest. I'll think on it, but, right now, I have to go. I have a rich man's house to track down and evidence to find."

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" Lab Rat called out, jumping in front of Marcie. "I can't let you out of my sight. I told you, someone is out to get you."

"And you don't know what he looks like," Marcie countered. "Handy. And how are you going to defeat this guy if he shows himself to us? Hmm?"

"Well, I'm not called Lab Rat for nothing," the woman said, proudly. "I've got mad scientist skills, girly-girl."

"Mad, huh?" Marcie asked, a little intrigued, in spite of herself.

"The maddest. Oh, I noticed that you were reaching into your jacket for something. Knowing you, it was probably something chemical. Not bad, but you might want to wear a lab coat, instead of that wool jacket."

Lab Rat opened her coat wide, displaying every corked flask, test tube, bulb syringe, and capsule stored away in its own neat little pouch, pocket, and strap. She was, quite literally, a walking lab. Marcie had to admit by this visual display, she was impressed.

"You'll have more room," Lab Rat continued. "Now, let's go back to the cafe and plan some sort of strategy that won't involve your family making funeral arrangements."

* * *

Nature-loving citizens of Crystal Cove would tell one that the town's surrounding pine forests, with their invigorating scent, their year-round beauty, and the soothing song they sing when the wind blows through their boughs, that it was probably the reason that made the founders create the town in the first place.

However, they would also tell one that there are places in the pinewood, places ancient and dark, not due to an absence of light, but to a treacherous nature. Where the cold caw of ravens are the only 'songbirds' of note, and Nature extends its influence in capricious directions, whether as crooked, bosky growths, or animals, normally fearful of man, now stalking hunting paths with impunity,

A white VW convertible drove through the cultivated, residential tracts of the wealthy, and then, off the paved road, onto a shady, overgrown and disused logging road towards the hilltop home of one Mr. Greenman.

"I have to admit," Marcie told Lab Rat, as she made another turn from the old road's twists. "Hacking _is_ better when you've got a partner. How did you know your around a mainframe?"

"Oh, well, I was a scientist at one time," Lab Rat said.

"Was?" Marcie asked. "Why'd you stop?"

Because Marcie was too busy driving, she couldn't see the fleeting expression on the woman's face. A brief flash of pride, and then, regret. "Well...I..."

She was struggling to bring herself to say what she felt, when Marcie called out, "Hey, I think I see it. Up ahead."

Lab Rat looked forward and could see the palatial, pine-shaded house, perched in the shadowy hill of the pines and overlooking the town and the Pacific. With the estate's darkened, panoramic windows, Marcie worried that Greenman could be home watching them approach, unbidden, and be prepared for them.

A driveway branched off of the road and wound to the front of the home. Marcie parked and was about to leave the car when Lab Rat grabbed her arm, albeit, more gently.

"Marcie, you shouldn't do this," Lab Rat entreated. "There has to be a better way to get this evidence than breaking and entering."

Marcie shrugged, saying, as if to assuage the woman, "I've gotten pretty good at breaking and entering, these days." It didn't work.

"Okay, you said that you're here to protect me? Then stay in the car and keep your eyes peeled," Marcie said. "If you see someone drive up or come over, just honk the horn. I'll see you in a bit."

With a great deal of misgiving, Lab Rat let her go, as Marcie sprinted over the landscaping and around to the back of the large house. Ascending the steps that wound from the vast, woodland backyard up to the elevated patio, she found the glass backdoor.

With bulb syringe in hand, Marcie jabbed it into the lock and squirted. A few seconds later, with a copied key made on the inside, she broke the end off of it and gave it a turn. The backdoor opened.

Sneaking through the breakfast nook and the kitchen, Marcie had to marvel at the gloomy beauty of the seemingly empty home on her way through the wide dinning room, where she and Winslow were ensnared into Greenman's schemes. That thought that made her focus and steeled her resolve.

With the house's modern architecture, she found it tricky to navigate from back to front, and so had to remember what the place was like from front to back, or, at least, from front to dinning room. It was then, that she recalled a door that was closed when all others were open, forward to midway of the house. A foyer, a spacious living room with fireplace, a guest bathroom, a den...and then, a closed door.

It took but a few more paces through the home for Marcie to find the door in question. She turned the knob and it opened freely. From what she could discern from the desk and shelving, this must have been Greenman's private office.

However, with its huge desk that looked more grown than built, its sylvan-inspired shelving and walls, and its running, miniature waterfall and thin stream flowing around the base of the desk, like a moat, she had never seen one so beautiful in its depiction of raw nature.

Quickly, she stepped over the stream and around the back of the desk. There, she found drawers to root through.

After a few moments, Marcie had gone through every drawer there, and so, leaned against the side of the desk to think of where to look next. So deep in thought was she, that she hadn't felt the click of the hidden button on the desk that she sat against, but did notice the sound of a lock being freed from behind a tapestry on the far side of the room.

Marcie got up and went to the drapery, pulling it back to reveal a half-opened door. She opened it fully and a small chamber was seen within. One with an oaken shrine and alter, laced with fresh ivy.

On the alter, Marcie could see three gold and wooden statues standing above a silvery vessel filled with water. A silk pillow at the base of the alter, completed the odd picture.

_'Why did Greenman have this in his house?'_ she thought.

"Thinking of becoming a druid?" Greenman taunted, bemusedly, from the doorway of his office, startling her.

Marcie backed out of the hidden room and turned to face Greenman from her side of the office.

"Breaking and entering, Miss Fleach?" Greenman asked her. "I dare say you missed your calling. What's the matter? Looking for your precious part, or what's left of it? It's in my house, as you rightly surmised. In fact, it's in my office, behind the waterfall, if you really must know. Not that you'll stay long enough to enjoy your victory."

The thought of being thrown in jail again wasn't becoming the threat it used to be for her. She would dare say that she was becoming inured by it, particularly when one considered who the jailer was.

"Why, Greenman?" Marcie asked him. "Because you're going to have me arrested?"

"Not at all," he said, smoothly, as he moved to the side, allowing the gentleman to walk past him into the room. "Because, I'm going to have this gentleman dispose of you."

Marcie studies his features, trying to commit them to memory through her fear in realizing that Lab Rat was right all along. "I know what's going on. He must be the one Dr. Quest sent to get me."

"You are, _indeed_ , a detective. Yes, he did send this fine gentlemen here to get you. But don't think too harshly on the good doctor. He only did it as a favor...for me."

Marcie's face fell. " _You_ want me dead? Look, I know we don't see things eye to eye, but why?"

"To teach your father a lesson," he said, simply.

" _What_?"

"You struck me yesterday. I admire your fire, but I can't have that go unpunished," he said, matter-of-factly. "Your father thinks that, by me taking his park, he understands the meaning of loss. He doesn't, but he will, soon enough. As for you, I knew that you'd try to come here, once you realized that I took the remaining piece of the governor, so I had my friend, here, wait for you. It saved him a lot of trouble looking all over town for you."

"So, it was a trap."

Greenman laughed at her. "A trap? No, not really. I was just being efficient. I've already beaten you, so do you seriously think that I care about you, your father, or some piece of junk, Miss Fleach? The destiny that I walk towards is far greater than both of you, personally. Oh, and I'm afraid your funny-looking friend, outside, will be waiting for nothing, since we've been home waiting for you, the whole time."

He turned to the gentleman, saying as he left the doorway, "If you can, sir, try not to make too much of a mess in there. Her father has to be able to identify the body."

The gentleman nodded, as Greenman left the two of them, alone.


	4. Chapter 4

The gentleman turned his back to Marcie and closed the door with a patient slowness that spoke of the confidence of the kill. The sound of the lock clicking was the dread signal for action on both their parts.

He turned to face his target in time to feel his feet freeze under a spreading, irregular slab of ice. Marcie, thankful that the office was furnished with a hardwood floor for her capsule to break against, threw another Insta-Ice capsule behind him.

The capsule broke against the wall and splashed blue liquid that bridged the gap between it and the gentleman, freezing, mid-air, into a crooked, icy hand whose thick fingers clawed into the side of his torso and shoulder, immobilizing him.

Although he still had one arm free to grasp or strike, Marcie didn't think he could reach her. The gentleman was far enough away from the door that she felt confident that she could unlock and open it without interference.

She stepped away from the desk to prove that theory, when she stopped in incredulous horror.

The gentleman gave a twisting shrug, cracking the ice that held him from behind. It came apart easily and fell into wet chunks to the floor. He then looked down at the rest of the ice that clung stubbornly to his feet. He balled his fists and hunched over slightly for leverage.

Marcie watched in amazement at the personal battle being waged before her, as the gentleman's legs, first the one and then the other, lifted their respective foot out of the ice slab, breaking clear from its base.

He looked down again and noticed that one shoe slipped off and was still held captive in its icy prison, but he didn't mind. It would melt soon. Probably under the fading body heat of a deceased Marcie Fleach.

Marcie was stunned with the exhibition of strength this person had, to break free so soon after being frozen in Insta-Ice.

"Wow," she whispered. "I've got to work on bumping up my ice formula, when I get home." Then, gulped, "If I ever get home."

She reached into her jacket and hurled a Discourager to the floor before the gentleman's feet, exploding into a cloud of thick, gagging, eye-watering smoke.

Marcie gave a pause before she did anything else, gauging his reaction within the cloud. Would it affect someone who demonstrated such power as him?

She could see the gentleman's silhouette still standing where he was, with only his head moving slowly, as if he was just watching the mist, itself, instead of trying to see through it. To Marcie, it looked like he was studying it. Maybe he was confused by it and stopped due to indecision.

She decided to take the chance, went for the door and ran for it, making sure to shield herself from her own weapon.

She got as far as the door, when a grip like a steel trap clutched her arm, the same arm that Lab Rat held on to so much, earlier. She began to lean into the pain of the grip.

"My arm is never gonna heal at this rate," she groused, before the gentleman pulled back and spun her the short distance from him to the front of the desk. Her back slammed into it, and since the desk never budged, she took the full force of the impact, which almost made her double over.

"Ugh! What are you trying to do? Drive me into the desk?" she asked, rhetorically.

"Why, that's an excellent idea, Miss Fleach," the gentleman said, cordially. Then, he lunged at her.

Instinct took over, forcing Marcie to hop up on the desk to evade him. His hand reached out for her, just as she tried to squirm away further, accidentally knocking over the desk lamp that sat beside her.

There was a sizzling pop sound as the lamp fell to the floor, and then, all was dark and deathly quiet.

Marcie wondered what went wrong, or right, as the case might have been, and pulled out her penlight to shine it forward on where the gentleman was.

Marcie gave a gasp in reflex. The gentleman's grasping hand was halted mere inches from her face, his body, inexplicably caught in some stationary mid-action, and his face, a motionless rictus mask of impending victory, or sadistic pleasure. In Marcie's mind, given the context of the situation, one was as good as the other.

Carefully sliding off the desk and stepping past the gentleman, in case he somehow revived himself, Marcie looked down to see where the desk lamp fell, and could see that his sock-clad foot has stepped into the water of the surrounding little stream just as the desk lamp fell into it, popping the light bulb inside and electrocuting him.

Yet, an electrified body wouldn't exactly stand stock still, she knew, it would tremble as the electricity made the muscles in his body tighten uncontrollably. However, she wasn't going to argue with the results, so far.

Letting her weird sense of curiosity guide her, she gave the gentleman an experimental tap against his the back of his head, and could swear that she heard a dull, faint ring from under the scalp that didn't just vibrate from where she struck, but also through his skull.

_'A...machine?'_ she wondered in awe _. 'If so, then Quest had surpassed himself. A shame he's working with Greenman, though. Which reminds me...'_

Marcie tabled the thought, as she ran to the back of the office and unplugged the desk lamp. Then, she reached her hands into the waterfall and felt around for the severed part. It was hard to differentiate between wet stone and wet steel, but after a few seconds, she thought that she had gotten a handful of the part, and gave it a good heft, successfully dragging the metal base of the speed governor out of the cataract.

Tucking it under her arm, Marcie stood up and quietly unlocked the office door. She slipped out and checked up and down the path of the house. No gloating Greenman.

Tip-toeing ahead to the living room/lounge, she didn't run into the master of the house, there, but, sadly, she did hear him from behind and froze, mentally becoming one with the room's decor.

Greenman walked to his office, cheerfully saying, "It's quite quiet in there. Did she put up a struggle at all?" He opened the door fully, seeing in the dark room, the still, dark silhouette of the gentleman, standing with his back to Greenman.

_'Perhaps, he just finished her off against my desk,'_ he thought as he called out, "Gentleman? Are you alright?" With no answer, or movement, Greenman knew something was off. He backed out of the office with every troubled step, until his peripheral vision caught someone in the lounge.

_'Marcie,'_ his mind hissed.

He spared her a single word, "You," then, he charged.

Even though he would have to run past the den before entering the living room, Marcie could see that Greenman was still too close to where she was and knew she wouldn't have the time to open the front door before he pounced. But there was another option.

Praying that it would work, she took off towards the front windows of the house, grabbed the governor's base, and, with a swinging, two-handed toss, let the part fly through one of the wide windows, shattering them completely.

Outside, in the Clue Cruiser, Lab Rat turned her head to the sound of glass breaking, in time to see Marcie leap through the window frame, land hard onto the landscaping, and roll towards the driveway, absorbing the impact.

She didn't look back, or even stop to catch her breath, especially when the front door opened and its doorway was filled with the figure of Greenman, radiating his ire upon her, like a dark sun. She jumped to her feet and scrambled into her car.

"What happened?" Lab Rat asked, while Marcie frantically started the car and dug out before a sprinting Greenman could reach the rear bumper.

"Did you get the part?" the woman asked, again. "Where's the part?"

Marcie recklessly twisted back onto the logging road, flooring the accelerator and pushing the Cruiser hard into the dark night.

She remembered seeing the base bounce and tumble across the lawn, and, in retrospect, compared to having given Greenman the temporary slip, she couldn't have cared less about that heavy hunk of metal, just as he so eloquently told her earlier. Before he tried to have her killed, of course.

"It's in the past, Lab Rat," Marcie decided. "It's in the past."

It grew quiet in the car and it wasn't until they saw the city lights beckoning them into Crystal Cove, once again, that Marcie felt confident enough to speak.

"Lab Rat, I'm really sorry," she said, sincerely. "You _were_ right. Quest did send someone to get me, and it was all because of Greenman. I can't believe he'd go this far, but why would Quest help him? I thought he was a better man than this."

"We can talk about that when get to my hotel room," Lab Rat said. "It's too dangerous to go home, just yet. This Greenman might know where you live, but he doesn't know me, or where I stay, so this is safer."

Marcie's mind was bouncing from one thought to the next, and she didn't regard the wisdom her passenger was giving her, but she had to think aloud.

"I think...that assassin was a robot, but it looked human."

"Human-looking robot, huh? Wouldn't have thought of that." Lab Rat nodded. "That _would_ be Quest's style."

"But, what about my dad?" Marcie worried. "What if that thing gets to my house and he's there?"

Lab Rat gave that a thought, then nodded. "Okay, we'll swing by the house and pick him up. Then, it's off to the hotel, understand?"

"Yeah."

* * *

Marcie turned on the lights and called out to Winslow from their home's living room, but there was no answer.

Lab Rat took a look around the modest home and saw no evidence of struggle, nothing overturned, nothing broken.

She saw Marcie jog from the kitchen to the stairs, and up the stairs, to call out to her father again, and again, there was no sound.

From the bedrooms, bathroom and attic, Marcie checked, but in the end, she slowly walked back downstairs, deep concern etched into her young face, and met up with a Lab Rat sitting in the living room.

"He's not here," said Marcie. "Do you think that...the robot..."

"Look around," Lab Rat calmly said to her. "There's nothing out of place, no signs of a struggle, but that doesn't mean much, I know. All I do know is that we can't stay here. Mr. Charming might come back, if he hasn't, already."

"Alright," Marcie sighed, as she followed Lab Rat out the front door and locked the house behind her.

* * *

"There, now, isn't this better? A regular home away from home," Lab Rat said, as she showed off the interior of her comfortable hotel room. It was spacious, well-lit and appointed. It was beyond reproach, as far as Lab Rat was concerned.

"I'd rather be home," Marcie grumbled, sitting on a sofa. She saw Rat's face fall a little, as she sat next to her, and felt like kicking herself with a steel-toed boot.

_'Rude,'_ Marcie thought, then said, "I'm sorry. I just don't want anything to happen to Dad. He's been through so much, lately, and I don't want to lose him, like I lost my mom."

That intrigued Lab Rat. "Your mother...did she die?" she asked, hoping not to touch a nerve and ruin a possible friendship.

"No," Marcie related. "She just moved out when I was little. I thought we were happy, but I guess the divorce papers proved me wrong. Since then, it's been me and my dad against the world."

"He loves you, you know. Your father."

Marcie wondered for a second why Rat would tell her that. She knew it, herself, but, it was becoming harder to see, lately. "I know, but he can be hard to live with, sometimes," she confessed. "We never had to worry about curfews, or anything like that. I mean, where would I go past nine o'clock, back then, anyway? And grades were never an issue..."

" _But_..." Lab Rat goaded Marcie. Marcie proved an easy lock to pick.

"Well...it's his ways, y'know," she continued. "He's a good man, a hard worker, and he loves his park like it's a part of the family, but, ugh, he's so _cheap_ , I mean, like, super-cheap. My crappy nickname growing up was all because of his stupid work ethic."

Again, Rat's interest was piqued. "What _was_ your nickname? I promise, I won't laugh."

Marcie sighed and wondered, _'Why was it so easy talking to her? I'm blabbing like the English language was going out of style, around her.'_

"Well...it was...Hot Dog Water."

A chuckle slipped from Lab Rat.

"I thought you said you wouldn't laugh, you traitor!" Marcie said, her face reddening.

"That wasn't a laugh," Lab Rat said, pedantically. "Technically, that was a chuckle."

"Well, technically, this isn't a handshake," the girl said with a vengeful smile. "It's punitive tickling!"

Lab Rat's breath was taken away by Marcie's thin fingers raking against the sides of her ribs, and she suddenly regretted keeping her lab coat open for Marcie to attack through, as she howled in laughter.

Retaliation was in order, and so, Rat's fingers found their way past Marcie's jacket, and her ribs were under risible assault. When a knock on the door was heard, both of them sat breathless and laughing.

"Pizza Man!" they cry out in unison. Lab Rat got up and walked over to the door, paid the pimply teenaged boy, and then carried the precious food over to the dinning room table.

The aroma that was released upon opening the box, was nothing less than spell-binding.

"Well, what's the game plan for tomorrow?" Lab Rat asked between bites of a hot slice.

Marcie chomped into hers. "I told Greenman that I was going to find out why he came to Crystal Cove and why he wanted Dad's park so bad. When I was in his house, I found what looked like a nature shrine, in his office. When he caught me, Greenman asked if wanted to be a druid. Is that what he is? A druid?"

"If he is, it's weird, because there can't be too many pagans living in this country. Well, apart from witches, I mean."

"But Greenman's English," Marcie reasoned. "That might count for something, like a reason he came here. Maybe there's something here that he, or his religion, wants."

"Hmm, maybe," Lab Rat shrugged, then took another bite.

Marcie reached into the box for another slice, and said to Rat, "Tomorrow, I want to go see someone from the university, here, in town. A professor, my friend, Daisy, told me about."

She couldn't wait until tomorrow, as well. She had a lot of questions, and was eager for the answers, as she ate hungrily.

She held up her half-devoured slice and toasted, saying, "To getting answers!"


	5. Chapter 5

The darkened classroom of Professor H.P. Hatecraft was illuminated only with the dappled light of the afternoon through its tall windows, as the students within were either dozing off, or were respectfully quiet, as they watched the television that displayed a recorded lecture on parapsychology by the professor.

However, that lecture had quickly became a debate between him and a man in the audience, an aging, squinty-eyed fellow professor of parapsychology, due to a disagreement they both had concerning past life regression.

_"Past-life regression deals with things that were experienced in a person's supposed other life, through reincarnation, or other such mechanism. You know this, Hatecraft."_

_"Yes, I do. But I'm suggesting that perhaps that past-life experience may come from somewhere beyond just our limited concepts of the local space-time continuum."_

_"Like where?"_

_"From alternate time," Hatecraft said._

_"Really?" the man chuckled. "You're going to tell us that a person who experiences past life, isn't getting those experiences from somewhere in that person's alleged other past, as it relates to_ our _space-time, but from_ another _space-time, altogether?"_

_"Exactly, Professor Cringeworthy."_

_"But, past-life experience has nothing to do with alternate time. Alternate time means alternate history, and that means an alternate life, as well. If that person came from an alternate Earth, then came here, his or her life would have changed, in favor of the new reality," Cringeworthy reasoned._

_"Exactly. And it's the faint memories from that person's alternate life,_ your alleged past, _intruding into that person's present one, the new reality, that creates the past life experience for him or her. Maybe we shouldn't be calling it 'past life,' as that would be too limited in its scope, and instead call it, 'past_ reality _regression.'"_

_"Honestly, Hatecraft, do you think of these quack theories from the top of your head?"_

_"It may be a theory at the moment," Hatecraft challenged. "But consider. Can one's_ nature _transcend time, or even other dimensions? Can a person's psychology be so ingrained, so intractable, that, at least on a unconscious level, it survives the decision branches that lead into alternate worlds? Can the power of the mind have the_ strength _to do that?"_

_Cringeworthy shook his head. "A person is linked to his or her space-time and lives out his or her life within it. When they die, they move on, and they certainly don't travel into alternate worlds on a whim, Professor Hatecraft."_

_"I disagree, Cringeworthy, but that's a topic for another time. What I am saying is that past reality regression is not only possible, but it could also turn the idea of nature versus nurture on its head. Could our natures actually be dictated by what we may have did in on some alternate Earth?"_

_Cringeworthy sighed at him and glanced around at their peers for some measure of scholarly support. "Is that it? All of this, just to lead up to your ultimate issue of nature or nurture, Hatecraft? Hmm...I would tend to doubt that."_

_He then walked out onto the lecture hall's aisle, and continued "In fact, personally, I've never gave much stock in the notion of past life regression, anyway. I always thought it was just ego-driven fantasy. A person's psychology is shaped by one's personal history in the here and now, not from some imagined past lifetime, and certainly not from something as fanciful as a imagined Earth, in a imagined universe. Child A grows up in a harsh environment and becomes a harsh person. Child B grows up in a loving environment and becomes a loving person. That is all that happens."_

_Hatecraft coolly pointed his strange understandings into Cringeworthy's iron wall of skepticism. "Your narrow oversimplification is not a definitive answer to a question with near-infinite possibilities, Professor Cringeworthy. Your same Child A who grew up in a harsh environment, may grow up determined never to have anyone else experience what he or she had, and thus become a loving person. That decision creates a new universe. Child B, who grew up with loving parents, may develop entitlement issues_ because _of that love, becoming a tyrant. That decision creates a new universe. What if that new Child A, and that new Child B experience a notion in their natures to do, in some minor way, what they did in their alternate worlds, wouldn't that be spectacular?"_

_"Wouldn't that be terrifying, you mean," Cringeworthy sniffed. "It would mean that we would all be at the whim of your alternate selves. Nothing but puppets on loan from the previous universe. Is that what you want, Hatecraft?"_

_"Well, as you say, Cringeworthy," Hatecraft said, with a quiet, secret resolve. "It's just a theory. A quack theory."_

The lights in the classroom came on and Professor Hatecraft walked from the television to his blackboard.

"Students, I showed this recording because I wanted to explore more of those theories and open the floor to new ideas, but I'm afraid that some people, who _call_ themselves academics, are just too narrow-minded to accept the limitless, the infinite," he pontificated.

A yawn from one of the students made him cut his speech short and get back on track. "Yes, anyway, your assignments for tonight will be to write an essay on past life intrusions into present time. That will be all."

The bell rang and the classroom emptied, leaving Hatecraft alone with his thoughts. At least, until Marcie and Lab Rat walked in.

"Are you Professor Hatecraft?" Marcie asked the thin, gloomy-looking man with the gaunt features, sitting at his desk, papers in hand.

"Who are you? Classes are over for today." He looked over to Lab Rat and said, "Lambda Epsilon Gamma is on the other side of the campus, young lady."

"I'm not a student, sir," Lab Rat explained. "I'm just with her. She'll be asking the questions, though."

"Such as?"

"What do you know about druids?" Marcie asked.

His eyes widened slightly, then squinted in suspicion. "Why would you want to know about them? Are you one of them?"

"Them who?"

Hatecraft gave a slight glance at the windows. "The Enlighteners. They're always dogging my steps because I know too much. I uncovered a plot to take over the university a few years ago, and they've been watching me ever since."

"Are you sure this is the guy?" Lab Rat whispered in Marcie's ear. "He sounds like one taco short of a combo plate."

Marcie didn't have the heart to remind Lab Rat that she didn't exactly look like the picture of mental health, herself. "Daisy said that he's the one. He has a reputation with the occult-"

"Even if everybody else scoffs at what I try to teach them," Hatecraft cut her off, after eavesdropping on them. He then gave them a more begrudging look. "If you're not with them, then you…seem safe to talk to. Let's go to my office and we'll talk further."

The office was a miniature museum of oddities surrounding a single desk, which Hatecraft sat behind. Shelves of books, strange tomes of hidden or forbidden knowledge, covered the wall space, there was the odd skull and trinket, weird protection symbols carved into the wood in the back of the office door, and candles burned in a room that had running electricity, but the lights were turned off...for atmosphere.

Marcie, Lab Rat, and the professor stopped just after they entered the office to see a dark-skinned boy wearing a disarming face, charming eyes, and a track suit, sitting behind the desk, shuffling and flipping through a stack of folders.

"Just what do you think you're doing, young man!" Hatecraft called out. "You are not allowed in here, unless I call you in."

"Who's the kid?" Lab Rat asked Hatecraft in a whisper.

Hatecraft rubbed the tension sitting on the bridge of his angular nose. "He's actually older than he looks, Miss Rat, and please, just ignore him. He's one of my students, a teaching assistant, and traveling companion when I make my excursions in the unknown. Although I already know his name, he insists on me calling him, 'Flip-Flop,' or some such nonsense."

"C'mon, Professor, get my name right. It's Flim Flam, and don't wear it out," the childlike invader said.

The professor just sighed. "Flim Flam, is there a reason why you're here?"

"Oh, yeah. I wanted to get the planner for my class, tomorrow."

"I'll give it to you at the end of the day," Hatecraft said. "Is there anything else? I have to help these young women."

"Yes, you wanna tell me why I can't go back to that Ghoul School place we went to?"

"I already told you," Hatecraft sighed. "Because, _I_ wanted to study the students and faculty who attended and ran the school, and all _you_ wanted to do was get those girls. You're just lucky I kept those boys from that military school next door from pummeling you."

"Huh! Those army brats?" Flim Flam scoffed with a boastful laugh. "I could've handled them."

Hatecraft walked over to the desk, went through some of the folders, and then, finding the one he wanted, gave it to Flim Flam, who opened and read it.

"Annunaki lecture, huh? You know if we ever get proof of the existence of one of them, we could make some serious bank, Professor."

Hatecraft snorted in derision at that. "Harvard Palakiko, you should be grateful that I take you on this expeditions in an effort to broaden your mind to the possibilities of the infinite, to catch a glimpse of the very cosmic forces that flow around us."

"Yeah, yeah, and Dean Darrow said if I didn't go, I wouldn't pass your course, and I'd be expelled," Flim Flam said, then added, "How was I to know the necklace I tried to sell was a Darrow family heirloom? Geez, you make one mistake in here..." Flim Flam sulked.

"You may go, now, Flambe."

"Ugh! It's Flim Flam, Professor!" the diminutive student corrected in a huff, before leaving the office. "Flim Flam!"

Marcie and Lab Rat shook their heads at the tableau and sat on the hard, uncomfortable wooden chairs in front of the desk, reliving their least favorite moments before the principals of their respective high schools.

"I'm sorry about that, ladies," Hatecraft apologized.

"Uh, that's okay, sir," Marcie said, studying the decor. "Mrs. Dinkley would love what you've done with the place."

"You know Mrs. Dinkley?" H.P. asked, cordially. "How is she doing? I owe her a peek at one of my most recent finds. An ancient chest, said to contain the vengeful spirits of thirteen-"

"She's fine, Professor," Marcie cut him off. "Now about druids?"

Hatecraft steepled his bony fingers together, sighed and began. "Yes, of course. Well, druids are, or rather, _were_ a priestly class that existed in Britain, Ancient Gaul, or France, Ireland and other parts of Celtic Europe. However, little is known about them. They believed in reincarnation..."

"Oh, that sounds cool," Lab Rat said.

"As well as human sacrifice."

"Oooh. Not so cool," Lab Rat winced.

"I wouldn't worry, ma'am," the professor assuaged. "They generally sacrificed criminals, and would only use innocent people, if they couldn't find any."

"Must've did wonders for their crime rate," Marcie quipped under her breath. "Anyway, sir, the reason why I asked is because I think someone in town is a druid."

That piqued the professor's collegiate interest. "Really? Who?"

"An Englishman named Greenman," Marcie told him. "I think I saw his shrine, last night."

The image of the haggard, unappreciated crusader of the unknown, evaporated, revealing the zeal of a scholar on verge of a great discovery. "He has a shrine? That's fascinating! What did it look like? Did you take any pictures?"

"No, I didn't take pictures," Marcie decided it was best not to mention why. "But it looked like an alter made of wood and covered with ivy."

"Hmm...make sense," the professor said, thoughtfully. "The wood could have come from oak or mistletoe, since druids venerated those two, according to Pliny the Elder. Anything else?"

"There was a silver bowl with water in it, and three little wooden statues on the alter inlayed with gold."

"Three statues, you say? They must be the three Celtic druid gods who demanded human sacrifice. Teutates, Esus, and Taranis.

"Who?" Marcie and Lab Rat asked in unison.

Hatecraft stood from his chair, affected a grim pose and announced, "Harsh Teutates, wild Esus, and Taranis, with his insatiable altar, to whom the druids appeased with cruelest blood. This may be proof that your individual is a druid, or, at the very least, a Neo-Druid."

"A Neo-Druid?" asked Lab Rat.

"A member of fraternal and Neopagan groups who still adhere to the teachings and ideas of Druidism following the Celtic revival of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth centuries," he explained.

Marcie's mind kept latching on to one notion. That someone...a druid...with Greenman's temperament and obvious devotion, would come to Crystal Cove to find new converts...and...

Her thoughts were interrupted by a question from Hatecraft. "If I may, could I get in touch with this gentleman? If he is a druid of any stripe, I would love to interview him. So little is known about them. They didn't leave any historical records of their lives, other than a few descriptions made by Greek, Roman and Irish artists and authors."

"I'll see what I can do. Professor Hatecraft," Marcie said, sarcastically. She wasn't about to expose an innocent man to Greenman's presence. Marcie asked her next question with the reluctance born of knowing the answer, but it was too grim to utter. "Could this druid commit human sacrifices here?"

Hatecraft thought on that. It sounded so implausible, it would have been laughed at, but, under the circumstances, it would make sense, considering the topic.

"Theoretically, if he's dedicated enough to the faith, he might," he postulated. "I watch the news every night, and I haven't seen any reports of missing persons, so I wouldn't jump to conclusions, my dear. Present Druidism doesn't ascribe to that sort of thing, anyway."

Marcie couldn't think of any more questions on the subject, but did come to conclusion that this professor wasn't half bad. She reminded herself to thank Daisy for the tip.

"Professor Hatecraft, you've been very helpful," Marcie said, standing and shaking his hand. "Thank you for all of your help."

Hatecraft's normally lean, sullen face suddenly brightened, his baggy eyes caught a twinkle of her sincere appreciation, and he had to smile, something that he couldn't remember how many times he did in his life.

"You're more than welcome, my dear, and please, let me know if you ever get in touch with that man you were talking about," he said, happily.

Marcie and Lab Rat were just leaving through the doorway, when Marcie stopped to glance back to the now ebullient professor.

"Oh, don't worry," she said, sincerely. "If I run into him again, you'll be the first person I come to. Promise."

* * *

Marcie drove through the light traffic of the town, thinking of what Crystal Cove would be like under the pagan influence of druids secretly living among the citizenry.

She gave a smile at the thought that with mistletoe all over the place, when Velma returned, she'd be trapped under a constant assault of kisses from her, both innocent and passionate.

That smile began to fade when the other side of the druid coin was considered. The side that was awash with human blood. She shook her head in concern and focused on her driving. The game plan was to go home to check if her father returned or not, that was more important.

She stopped at a red light, and a small parade of pedestrians walked across. The last man in line took a cautious look at the waiting cars, and at the Clue Cruiser, which stood idling at the crosswalk. He stopped.

He was pleasantly pleased, as death flowed through him.

Marcie took a look at the crosswalk and her blood ran as cold as her Insta-Ice. The gentleman from last night. She had seen him, and worse, he had most assuredly seen her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fleach," he greeted her, good-naturedly. "You proved a most resilient target."

"I try," she said, flippantly.

"Who is that?" asked Lab Rat.

"That," Marcie introduced to her. "Is my little sparring partner from last night."

"That's the guy Quest sent?" the woman gasped, worryingly glad to be able to know what he looked like, at last.

"Indeed. As a prototype, I tried to adapt to every situation I'm expose to," he continued, walking over and standing a yard or two from the front of the car. "However, I have to admit that electrocuting me, in an office, no less, was ruthlessly resourceful. My congratulations.

"Thanks," the teen said, surly.

"Luckily, Mr. Greenman was no less resourceful, getting in touch with Dr. Quest to send a tech team here to repair me with stronger circuit breakers and a shielded electrical system. I assure you, you will not try that same stratagem on me, again."

"Hey, tell me something. Are you a robot?" Marcie asked, her hand hovering over the gear stick and her foot over the accelerator.

"Why, yes, Miss Fleach. I am a state-of-the-art Quest-made android, or Questoid."

"Close enough," Marcie said, as he moved in, walking in a overconfidently straight line.

The light turned green and the car suddenly leapt forward into Drive. The Questoid evaded with a sidestep, but the car was a hair faster, clipping it in the knee with its front fender with enough force to dent it and knock the headlight askew, yet also having the robot pirouette violently out onto the street from the sideswipe.

The VW accelerated down the street, leaving the Questoid recovering on the asphalt, getting up, ungainly, from the damaged knee. Its brain assessed the issue and found that it was still more than capable of pursuit.

Marcie fought down her fear. Did he track her, somehow? It couldn't have been simple coincidence that they both ran into each other. By getting close to breaking the speed limit, Marcie wanted to keep those sort of run-ins to a bare minimum.

A glance at her rear-view mirror quashed those hopes. With the distance closing rapidly, the Questoid, _on foot_ , was chasing down up the Clue Cruiser, while Marcie weaved around a truck.

Unfortunately, it easily stayed with her, forcing her to keep driving at this reckless speed, until either she either successfully lost it, lost control and crashed, or accidentally hit someone.

Marcie gritted her teeth in frustration. She had just became a car owner and a driver this year, and now this thing was making her risk having it all taken away, and she hated it for that.

"Uh, not to make you nervous, dear, but he's still behind us." the woman said, looking back at the Questoid, as it zipped around the truck and still managed to keep pace with them.

Marcie was grateful for such low town traffic, as she gunned the engine and maintained her lead ahead of the automaton. Normally, a VW's dinky powerplant couldn't keep up the acceleration needed to fend off something as speedy as what the Questoid was proving, but thanks to the modifications given her car by both the Wacky and Rotten Racers, previously, the Clue Cruiser was acquitting itself, admirably.

"Lab Rat!" she yelled. "I've got an idea!"

She reached into her jacket with one hand, steering with the other. She then passed an Insta-Ice capsule to the woman.

"Get ready to throw it out the back when I give the signal!" Marcie instructed, as she saw a small street coming up.

"Now!"

Lab Rat unhooked her seat belt, raised herself from her passenger seat, and threw the capsule at the rear of the car. It shattered against the asphalt, creating a widening ice slick in the car's wake, just as Marcie made the dangerous, high-speed turn into the small street, hoping to outmaneuver the killing machine.

The Questoid easily saw the car dash through the side street, but its maneuverability and braking was compromised by its gamey knee, so, thanks to simple inertia, it couldn't avoid the patch of ice ahead.

Once it made contact with the ice, the machine became part of a physics experiment. Because of its speed, its inertia and momentum, when it slipped and fell, had it careening out of control, only stopping when it slammed hard into the rear of a parked car.

Just because it was a machine, didn't mean it was perfect, and its brain retrospectively wished that it had commandeered a vehicle. The human behavioral software in it, sourly thought, _'Hindsight is indeed twenty-twenty.'_

Soon after, it collected itself, gingerly ran around the ice, and followed Marcie down the side street

The Questoid was yards away from the Clue Cruiser, only getting closer when the car slowed down to make a defensive turn, but here, it just flew along a stretch of straight road that made the robot have to push its close-to-rattling bipedal suspension and increasingly heated pelvic servomotors to their failure point.

Marcie gave another frantic glance in the rear-view mirror. The Questoid was beginning to fall away, but she was too angry not to attack it, to hinder its hunt, to teach it a _very_ harsh lesson.

"Hang on!" Marcie commanded Lab Rat, even though they both were seat belted. She pressed both feet on the break pedal, the car screeching to a standstill. Then, she deftly changed gears to Reverse and gave it the gas. She only hoped, as she sped backwards, that she could catch it off-guard.

The Questoid's legs were a mechanized blur, as it leaned forward like a suicidal sprinter, determined to overtake Marcie, but now it was simply a victim of momentum, yet again. As the VW came barreling back towards the robot, it calculated the likelihood of colliding with the rear of the car. The probability was high. The velocity it was maintaining had now exacerbated the earlier damage to its knee, making its wonky maneuvering and braking, even more problematic.

A problem that came at it with all the force and ferocity of a Great White Shark, when the rounded rear of Marcie's car rammed into the midsection and thighs of the Questoid, at full speed.

Since the automaton was far lighter than the Cruiser, the kinetic energy of the car was like an unbearable juggernaut that made the machine double over, where upon it suffered a laundry list of destruction.

The crash ruined the pelvic servomotors, severed the lumbar spinal actuators and wiring, bent the femoral struts into near-boomerang shapes, destroying its hydraulics, ripped open its abdominal myo-armor, and breached its internal hydraulic fluid reservoir.

With its pelvis acting as a fulcrum point, the torso and head whipped forward and down into the hood of the vehicle, bounced up and tore violently away from the rest of the body.

It tumbled head over what remained of its waist, high over the car, baptizing Marcie and Lab Rat in dark, bled-out hydraulic fluid, and then, landed a few yards ahead.

The car kept going for a few more feet, rolling over what was left off the legs and hips, which had become twisted, oily wreckage underneath the undercarriage, held together only by the Questoid's pants.

"So much for the Quest- _toy_ ," Marcie growled, victoriously, as she zeroed in on the torso twitching up ahead.

The Questoid's brain was inundated with damage reports, its sensory processors were failing, and it was paralyzed in the middle of some Podunk coastal town. That thought, when it could hold on to it, fueled its rage for the human who stubbornly refused to do the right thing and surrender to her death.

Right now, however, it had to divert power from its ruined systems to its comm unit and call Mr. Greenman. Dr. Quest's tech team would have their hands full with this, but they were competent, and then the final round would be his.

That eventuality brought it the software equivalent of peace, as one of the front tires of the Clue Cruiser ran over his face.

The Clue Cruiser would need some bodywork, Marcie figured, as the car bounced off of the mechanized road kill, and she drove for home. Maybe Red would give her a discount at his garage.

There was always hope.


	6. Chapter 6

Lab Rat sat on the stool in the kitchen of Marcie's house and drank deep from her second celebratory glass of lemonade. Marcie, on her third.

"I have to admit, that little car of yours was pretty tough, when the chips are down," Lab chuckled in admiration on the recent escape.

Marcie gave a proud smile at her car. _Her car_. She still hadn't gotten used to the knowledge that she truly possessed something good and solid like that in her young life.

"True. The Questoid's chips _are_ down...over here, and some went down there, and some in another place," she jested.

Lab Rat happily raised her glass. "Here, here! So, what's the game plan, now? Look for your father?"

The fact that he still hadn't returned when the duo came back to Marcie's home, took her from her celebration and depressed her. "I guess I have to, since it looks like he hasn't come home, yet. The best to start would be the park."

Lab nodded. "Nature lover, huh?"

"Wrong park, Lab," Marcie said. "It's the amusement park in town. He owns it, and he might be still there."

The possibility of going to an amusement park, brightened Lab Rat, considerably. Who could say no to that?

"That must be the coolest thing," Lab gushed. "To have a dad who owns a fun park? I'd go there everyday."

Marcie gave a shamed, wistful look. As though she acknowledged that there was a time, long ago, when she thought and felt the same way, but now, she felt...the word pained her to even think it.

Jaded.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," she muttered. "Especially, when your dad wants you to take over, someday."

"Sounds like a dream job. Why don't you take it?"

Marcie gave a sigh. She didn't want to offend the woman by being so pointed about the subject, but she wanted her to see her side of the story. Maybe she wanted her to see that side the _most_.

"Look at me, for a sec, Lab Rat," she said. "Do I look like someone who's worried about a career, right now? I want to find out what life has in store for me, on my own terms, not settle in and take care of the family legacy. I love my dad, but what's he going to do next? Choose who I'm going to marry?"

Lab Rat could see what Marcie's father was apparently having trouble seeing. That his little girl was becoming her own woman, in fits and starts. It didn't look like a personal journey was being undertaken, but it was. It absolutely was.

"I get exactly what you're talking about," Lab said, soberly. "That why I moved-"

There was a heavy, clicking sound coming from the other side of the house. Marcie recognized it. It was the front doorknob, twisting.

"What? What is it?"

"The front door," Marcie told her, in a pensive whisper.

Adrenaline levels started climbing as Lab Rat asked, "Who's at the door? You think it might be...it?"

The thought squeezed at Marcie's gut. "No way! _No way!_ It couldn't be up and running after what I did to it. It can't!" She looked at Lab Rat's clothing, intently. "Do you have anything in that lab coat to take down a killer robot?"

Whatever fear Lab Rat displayed, faded under the light of her braggadocio. "Ha! If I don't have it, I've got the chemicals to whip it up on the spot."

"Good," said Marcie, getting up and patting herself to make sure she was similarly armed. "Let's give that wind-up toy a teachable moment about chemistry."

"Let's."

Both of them quietly left the kitchen, tip-toed through the dining and living room, and crept up towards the front door, where the doorknob's twisting was louder and more pronounced.

Marcie quietly unlocked the door and hovered one hand over her side of the doorknob, signaling Lab Rat, with the other, to hold fire until she opened the door. Lab nodded, reaching inside her coat.

Marcie held her breath. With its strength and speed, at this proximity, they might get one chance to catch the machine off-guard.

She turned the knob and engulfed Winslow Fleach in a spreading fist of ice.

"Marcia Anna Fleach!" he screamed, squirming to get free. "Get this...get this...off of me!"

Marcie just stared at him, not even thinking of the ice, or the grounding he might delivery. All her brain could process was the fact that he was there in front of her.

"Dad! You're alive! I thought..." She hugged him through the ice, numbing her arms and upper torso, and not caring one jot.

"You thought what, dear?" Winslow asked, shivering. "And who's your friend?"

Marcie had forgotten about Lab Rat, as well, it seemed. "Uh..."

"I'm just a cosplayer she ran into," Lab Rat said, stepping into the struggling conversation. "I was looking for the convention center, and, whoa! There she was. We had so much in common that we hit off, and now, we're buddies. Now."

Winslow gave the woman a quizzical look, then looked back to the hugging daughter. "Uh, Marcie, you'll have to do more than hug me to thaw all of this ice," he explained to her.

"Allow me," Lab said, non-chalantly, as she reached into her lab coat and produced a small sphere, which she then squeezed in her fist until a crack was heard. She then let it roll to the base of the ice block. It then glowed red and radiated so much heat, at such as fast rate, the exposed ice split down the center from the rapid temperature change, and Winslow fell from the inner mold made by his body.

"Hasty-Heat," Lab said, while Marcie helped her father to his feet.

"Hasty-Heat, huh," Marcie mused. " I guess great minds do think alike. I haven't felt like this since V was here."

"Who?" asked Lab Rat.

Deciding not to ruin her buoyant feeling of seeing her father again, Marcie just muttered, "Nobody." She then turned to her father, asking, "How come you were twisting the doorknob?"

"I couldn't open the blasted door," Winslow explained. "I have to get another lock put in. It always sticks when I try to open the door. Anyway, you'll have to watch the house while I go back to office. I need to pack my things and it may take a while."

"Sure thing, Dad," Marcie said. "But where were you? Why didn't come home, last night?"

Slightly embarrassed, Winslow bowed his head. "I wanted to say good-bye to the old girl, so I stayed the night. I know it's silly of me, but-"

Marcie held his arm, gently. "Hey, it's not silly. In fact, it was kind of sweet of you, you old softie."

Winslow gave Marcie a long look. Although she was his blood, his pride and joy, he slowly thought that maybe he should see her less as his pride, and more, his joy.

"Alright, I have to go," he said to her. "Take care of the house for me. I'll be back in a bit."

Lab Rat jumping into the conversation, telling him, "Don't worry, sir. Your daughter will be looked after."

"Okay..." Winslow said, cautiously. Then he got into his car and left.

"Well, things are looking up," Lab reasoned, as they watched Winslow's car drive away. "Your father's still alive, and Mr. Erector Set, out there, could get a ticket for littering itself."

Marcie's sudden thoughts on that had her frowning with grim acceptance. "Yeah, but nothing in life is ever that neat."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's what that Questoid told me before I wrecked him. It's a prototype, and it has that tech team Quest sent to keep repairing and upgrading it. As long as it has those guys, and that equipment, it'll just keep coming back," said Marcie.

"Heck," Lab considered further. " _Because_ it's a prototype, you're probably helping its eventual series by trashing it, so Quest'll make better and better models."

Marcie hadn't thought along those lines, but that _was_ a distressing thought.

"Gee, thanks," Marcie grumbled. "Sorry, but what are we going to do about it? Even if we wanted to shut them down, how could we? We don't even know where they are."

Lab Rat gave a thought on that, then she brightened with a mischievous smile. "I think I know where they are."

"You do?"

"Sure," she soothed, seeing the worry in her young friend's eyes. "We'll put our heads together to make this work, Marcie."

Marcie couldn't see Lab's eyes through the goggles, but she could hear the sincerity in her voice, and couldn't help but feel a little more confident because of it. "Right. Then, I'll make a phone call or two to some friends I know, lock up, here, and Operation Monkey Wrench will be a go."

"Operation Monkey Wrench?" Lab rat asked. Then, she smiled, finding a wild, scientific, and kindred spirit. "Sounds good. I like it."

* * *

The Cruiser was parked off to the side of the old logging road, with a waiting Lab Rat inside, and Marcie, for the eighth time, wished that stealth was not the name of the game, as she drudged along the long driveway that wound through the pinewood on its way to Greenman's house.

"It's hot, I'm doing this after school, and I'm only guessing if they're there, or not," Marcie grumbled to herself in the heat of the afternoon. The pines provided some shade, but they couldn't cool the air, and even Marcie was forced to take her jacket off and carry it over her arm, as she hiked.

Not knowing if Greenman was home, either, was, of course, the most dangerous part of this exercise. Then again, even if he weren't at home, there was no guarantee that she would find what she wanted, making this not only dangerous, but a dangerous fool's errand, besides. But, she was here, and she decided to push ahead.

The house was in sight, finally, and like its owner, it dominated its surroundings and made its presence known to all and sundry, at least, to any who knew where it was located.

As she walked closer to the edifice, Marcie began to understand a little more about Greenman and his religion, and had to nod. This would make sense for some druid enclave. A house big enough for meetings and rituals, secrecy, seclusion, and being close to Nature. For the proud pagan, this place had it all.

Marcie found a nearby thick-bodied pine to hid behind, reined in her inner real estate agent, and scanned the property ahead.

She reflexively saw the window that she shattered to escape the other night. It was replaced, the grand facade of the house looking immaculate and undisturbed, in the dappled light of day. But Marcie's recent memories convinced her otherwise. Even the old base to the speed governor was gone from the landscaping, and Marcie didn't even miss it.

What she also didn't miss was the white truck lined with neon green stripes and proudly carrying the logo for Quest Industries on the side, taking up space in the driveway.

' _That must be the tech team sent to patch him up,'_ Marcie thought, while she looked for any other parked vehicles. _'Guess they're here for the duration.'_

She studied the windshield of the cab and saw no one, so, she crept away from the cover of the tree, and over to the side of the broad truck, looking around.

The driveway was earthen, soaking up tire tracks well, and Marcie noticed the smooth grooves of a sedan's tires, curving either to, or from, the house. Then, she noticed, or rather, _didn't_ notice, something in the driveway, based on the existence of the tracks. A car. It wasn't there.

Logic immediately convinced her that it had to have been Greenman's. _'If I lived way out here,'_ she thought. _'There'd be no way I could walk to town every day.'_ If she needed transport, so would he.

The sheer remoteness of the place bred complacency, so far, proven by the fact that no one stood guard outside, as well. With her luck holding so far, Marcie scampered around to the back of the truck. She hoped the tactic of doing what the enemy didn't expect, would catch them by surprise. Except, she didn't want to catch Greenman. Not yet, anyway.

She leaned her head against the roll-up rear door and listened for sounds of work or conversation. She couldn't hear anything, but understood that it meant nothing. The techs could be inside taking a nap, for all she knew.

Hoping for the best, Marcie wasted no time, jogging over to the front of the truck. She gave the doorknob an experimental push of its button, and the door opened.

In the spacious lounge, four technicians and their driver sat around the massive flat-screen that commanded the home theater, and ate what they could pillage from the walk-in closet of a refrigerator. As one, they all decided to take a break while Mr. Greenman was at work, managing his vast produce empire.

A sixth figure stood in the shadow behind the sofa, silently watching what the others were vegetating in front of, its approximate curiosity being sated with every insipid commercial and psychologically revealing television show.

"Do you think it knows what it's watching?" asked one tech, while munching on corn chips, like a cow.

"I think the better question would be, 'what does it think of us as a species from what it's seeing?'" another tech named Wendy posited, after chugging her second iced soda.

"That's pretty deep, Wendy," the third tech said. "But could its cognitive software truly capture and analyze the subtle textures of human mentality, and, to a broader extent, can any of us?"

"Can even distinguish the values of humor and drama the way we can so that it could appreciate the program. The show, not the software, I mean," said the fourth tech.

Their driver sighed. "I don't know, but I wish you'd shut up, so me and the robot can watch this," he said, gruffly.

Marcie's heart banged in her chest, as she quietly jumped into the cab, sat high in the driver's seat, and created a Quick Key into the ignition. With a twist of the key and a diesel's roar, Marcie was rewarded with her first thrilling taste of Grand Theft Auto.

Everyone in the lounge knocked their food over into a collective mess, as they jumped at the sound of gears grinding and the engine's bellow, shocked that someone would have the temerity to steal their truck, in broad daylight, and mentally kicking themselves for their own lax security.

All five Quest Industries' employees crowded into the doorway in a frantic wedge, fearful of the loss of their jobs, and if the rumors were true, a lot more.

The truck was pulling out of the driveway, its rear tires kicking a plume of its earth in their direction, as though it were an gesture of disdain to the techs and driver for allowing this plunder.

"What're you gonna say on _your_ resume?" A defeated Wendy asked her co-workers, before the explosive sound of a shattered window was heard.

The Questoid, newly repaired, had blasted itself through the very same window Marcie had breached the night before. However, since the techs were on break, they hadn't replaced the mauled false skin it wore with a new one that would have had more resistance to tearing and punctures.

As it stood, the Questoid landed in a crouch, optics scanning, its feet making craters in the driveway, and the noonday shining upon the dull metallic finish of its body. Studying the truck's tracks, it assumed a runner's stance and, without fanfare, bolted into the woods in pursuit.

"What are we gonna do about the window?" the driver asked.


	7. Chapter 7

"I should've gotten up there, instead Marcie," Lab Rat fretted in the Cruiser. "I just _had_ to say yes, after all that begging she did. Ugh! Some m-"

She turned her head to the sound of a white and green truck barreling out of the winding driveway's exit, swerving onto the old road and disappearing in a cloud of road dust and gravel.

She turned the key in the ignition and was about to pull out onto the road to be Marcie's escort, when the flash of sunlight reflected off of a figure sprinting out of the driveway, caught her eye.

"The Questoid!" she gasped, as she started the car. Now, things were getting hairy.

The Questoid kept pace with the truck, its new legs running smoothly, with a 7 percent wider stride, to overtake prey faster. Which was satisfactory to it, as it closed in on the cumbersome vehicle with every pounding stride.

Managing to run parallel of the truck, it reached out a searching hand against the smooth surface of the trailer, trying to find and grab hold of any protrusion strong enough to climb up on, since it couldn't run and rend the vehicle for handholds, at the same time.

Marcie, hearing the sound of metal lightly scraping the truck from the outside, glanced at the rear-view mirror, and gasped.

The plan, originally, was to steal the truck, hide it and maybe discover a vulnerability to the Questoid so that if it was encountered again, it could be destroyed utterly, with no chance of it licking its wounds, afterwards. In hindsight, it sounded like a stupid, desperate plan.

The Questoid, meanwhile, shining in all of its metallic glory, was working hard to keep up and try to climb or damage the truck. That wasn't an option for Marcie.

She twisted the wide steering wheel, careening the truck away from the machine's questing grasp for a moment, then she turned the truck into the side of the running android.

The Questoid, not understanding why the car thief was attempting to turn off the road and crash into the woods, was caught flat-footed when the truck suddenly turned inside the road, slamming into the side of the automaton.

Although the road was mostly empty, it did have the odd car or two using it. One such car, on the other lane, didn't have time to stop when the Questoid, running out of control from being bumped, ran towards it.

Since that car was noticed a good half-mile ahead of time, by the machine, it prepared itself for possibilities concerning it. This collision course was one such possibility.

Calculating both the speed of it and the oncoming car, along with the angle of the preparatory leap and the time in which to do so, it quickly diverted enough hydraulic pressure to the piston-like construction of its legs, so that within two strides, it had jumped to clear the car's roof by inches, landed, and continued the chase.

All of this was seen by a worried Lab Rat, as she floored it to keep up. Her theory of engineering perfection via analyzed destruction was coming true before her eyes. It was faster, thought on it feet better, and seemed more tenacious than before. If it wasn't learning from its defeats, then it was, at least, enjoying the benefits from those who did.

It hadn't reached the cab, yet, probably thinking it was just some unlucky car booster. It would stop the theft just out of general principle, because the vehicle, the contents within, and even itself, were all Quest Industries property. However, if, or when, it found out that _Marcie_ was behind the wheel, then all bets were off, and heaven help her.

Marcie saw how the Questoid had avoided its destruction with the other car, and frantically thought about doing that again when the next car came along. Even a machine could get unlucky, sometimes.

Then, she realized that a person, or persons, were in those cars, and she shook her head. Like some acids, blood was one substance she didn't want on her hands. Reckless endangerment of innocents didn't sit well with her, so a new plan had to hatched, and soon.

Unfortunately, it was the Questoid that came up with one.

The angle of the sun was low, it being late afternoon, however, the sky was clear and the sun still hung high to the left. On occasion, the sunlight would glint off of the robot's surface.

As it tried to increase hydraulic and electrical power to its legs and pelvic motor systems, respectively, it happened to glance up at the outside rear-view mirror just as light reflected off of it onto the mirrored surface.

The driver's side was illuminated for an instant, causing the mystery driver to move the head in reaction to the discomfort. The second that head's face moved into view, the Questoid saw Marcie, and the closest thing to joy surged through its software.

The truck was moving at a good clip down the road, closing in on the town's city limits. It didn't know what Marcie's plan was, but it didn't care. If the Questoid could complete it mission, it was satisfied. Again, sunlight bounced off of it as it lit the side of the trailer.

Then, for the first time in its short existence, the Questoid felt inspiration. Calculating the angle of the sun's ray to maximum effect, it raised its right hand up and out, its angled its palm, which was flat and reflective, to catch the rays.

Instantly, the light beam it made, struck the rear-view mirror ahead and ricocheted the beam directly into Marcie's face.

Marcie squinted and tried to blink away the spots dancing in her vision. Although there were no other vehicles using the road on her lane, at the speeds she was driving, if she couldn't even see the road clearly, she would have to slow the truck to avoid a possible crash, which would make that a possible death sentence for her when the Questoid caught up to her.

In the end, self-preservation in her won out, and she began easing her foot from the gas pedal, when another burst of light dazzled her. Followed by another.

The Questoid, noticing the truck's speed diminishing, decided that it was safe enough to switch to a more leaping stride to close in to the cab.

Seven feet, six feet. Its left hand outstretched to grab the door handle and rip the door away before climbing inside and ripping the girl apart.

It could see Marcie struggle with trying to see with her weak, sensitive eyes, as it was just two feet from the door handle. Two feet from the death of Marcie Fleach.

Then, the sound of a loud lawnmower filled its ears, and for a moment, it hesitated in reaction too late.

Lab Rat, driving the Clue Cruiser at its top speed, managed to catch up to the automaton from behind, hoping to ram it, somehow, frantic to get it away from Marcie.

The Questoid didn't stop its run, but remembered the car and driver behind it for future reference. If she attempted to interfere, it wouldn't hesitate to dispatch the strangely dressed woman.

She interfered, anyway.

So fast was she driving the car, that it overtook the robot, slightly, its bumper shadowing the back of the Questoid's legs.

Then, it happened. The car moved so close that one of the robot's heels struck up underneath the bumper, back-kicking and briefly lifting the front of the car.

Although it felt no pain from the impact, the Questoid's stride was ruined by it.

It fell beneath the Cruiser, getting promptly run over for its troubles, and coming out the other side, rolling violently before settling, sprawled, in both vehicles' dusty wake.

"Marcie!" Lab cried out over the sounds of the truck. "Marcie! Are you alright?"

Hearing a friendly voice, Marcie was overjoyed that the killing machine was gone, at least, for a little while. She looked over at the rear-view mirror and gave a hit on the horn as a signal of her well-being.

A honk from the Clue Cruiser horn signaled Lab's grateful acknowledgement.

Both vehicles finally entered Crystal Cove proper, their drivers breathing relieved sighs. The first part of this now-improvised plan was finished, and the most dangerous part was yet to be done.

* * *

A couple wanting to take the scenic route through the pinewood, cruised down the old road on their way back to town. The driver then saw someone lying in their path, yards distant.

He slowed down until he could get a better look. It was human-shaped, but not so.

"What is it?" the girlfriend asked when he stopped the car.

"I don't know," he said, stepping out of the car, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Stay in the car. I'm gonna check this out."

He walked over to the still manikin. It looked worn and coated with a fine layer of dust. It must have been old, he thought. Might make some money off of it, though.

A closer inspection rewarded him with a steely hand clutching his throat, as the Questoid, fresh from its diagnostics and self-repair mode, sat up, looking at the idling car and the terrified woman inside.

Commandeering a vehicle. It was learning.

"That's a lovely car you have, there," it said to its hapless victim.

* * *

"I think that's them," Jason called out from within the scrap yard's entrance as green and white truck trundled past, followed by a dented, white VW convertible.

"That's the third truck you said was them," Red groused on his motorcycle, not noticing the small car escorting the larger vehicle.

"Third time's the charm, Red," Daisy said, leaning against the door of her car. "I see the Clue Cruiser."

All three friends gathered by the driver's side of the truck to see Marcie climb wearily out of the cab.

"It's about time you guys showed up," Red complained. "You got any idea how long we waited for you? What were you doing?"

For the sake of friendship and because she was too tired to throw an Insta-Ice capsule against his head to shut him up, Marcie said nothing and just sat down on the footboard below the door.

"Is that the truck you wanted us to hide?" Jason asked, looking at its dimensions and working out where to conceal it. The junkyard seemed the likeliest place to do that, provided the lot's owner was amenable to that, which he was, provided he was paid for the storage of the thing.

That's where Daisy came in. A deal was struck whereby Daisy could come by and buy as much scrap as she could carry, as long as the truck was secured and unhampered with. With the financial strength of the Blake name and dollar signs in the old man's eyes, he agreed.

"Yes," Lab Rat said. "We gave the robot the slip, but it'll be here, you can bet on that."

Daisy shook her head. "I still can't believe that story you told us. A robot coming to town to get you, Marcie?"

Don't worry, you guys," Marcie said, lifting her head to watch the lot's entrance. "It's coming. Have you guy set up the traps, like I asked?"

Red waved the question away. "Yeah, yeah, they're set up, no problem. There just better be this killer robot on its way, or we wasted our time, here."

"It's-"

"Yeah, yeah. It's coming," Red said. "Okay, let's get this truck put away, and then we'll get ready for this robot snipe hunt."

* * *

 

A car entered the entrance of the lot with a quiet that seemed almost sinister, as it crunched across the gravel. Young eyes watched it come to a stop and waited. Impossibly, a machine man stepped out of the car and stared at the mountain range of junk ahead of it.

It decided to conserve its energy, and simply walked towards it, its optics scanning every shadowy crawlspace that a slim human could hide in. Nothing was forthcoming.

Nervous ears could hear the cold sound of metal soles on gravel, and bodies tensed into potential action, as the Questoid calmly walked deeper into the dark valleys of scrap.

As it walked around the base of one scrap meal mountain, it heard something faint, an arrhythmic tapping coming from another junk hill off to the side.

It moved at a brisker pace, homing in on the sound and hoping it was the target, foolishly giving herself away. Finally, it reached the hill, looking for the human, but finding only an old dippy bird, tapping on a hubcap it was perched on, like a plastic, liquid-filled woodpecker.

Red, carefully creeping over the peak of the hill, dragged a cobbled together net woven from thin metal fiber. On its ends were heavy disks which made the net awkward to manipulate. When the Questoid began walking away from the hill, Red reached back and cast out the net with a strong heft.

It sailed through the air silently enough that the machine didn't notice until it fell on him. Reaction was instant, but before it thought to rip through the net, its lines began to tighten around the robot, stealing away its ability to gain enough leverage to rend the net.

It wasn't until the Questoid had struggled long enough, that it understood how the net had restrained it so quickly. The net's disks had attached themselves to its limbs and torso. They were powerful magnets, drawing themselves and the rest of the net into a tangle that even the robot was having trouble freeing itself from.

Red suddenly descended the hill, running at it with an old fire axe, and, like a berserker born, he put everything he had into chopping at the chest and head of what he thought was impossible just minutes before.

The spiked end did the most damage to the squirming Questoid, punching dents and scratched divots in its body, but doing no internal damage, thanks to its stronger alloy. However, the impact left shock damage that the brain was trying to reconcile.

Red, to his credit, kept whacking at it, until the axe's dry, weather-beaten handle snapped in two, after burying the head into one of the robot's shoulder joints, actually wrecking it.

The Questoid struggled some more until one of its legs slid out from under the tight snuggle of the net, and Red was close enough for it to use it.

With a piston-powered kick, it caught Red by surprise, launching him into a tumbling crash against the foot of the junk hill. Winded, he lie there, favoring his gut and valiantly trying to catch his breath, while the robot had loosen the net enough from the kick to begin pulling it apart, gradually.

Red knew that it wouldn't be long until it would be ripping him apart, as well. That's when they both heard a vindictive cackle, that pleased one, as it surprised the other.

Looking up, both human and machine looked up to see a young woman wrapped in a tattered cloak point a crooked finger at the still struggling Questoid, who was tugging magnets off of it by the shredded net cables they were attached to.

"You, machine man!" challenged Daisy, perched on a nearby hill and as junk drunk as ever. "You look well put together. You've already sampled a taste of my champion's hospitality, now you shall become a part of my glorious collection!"

The Questoid looked up at this addled female, focusing its investigation on finding its quarry. "Where is Marcie Fleach?"

Again, the queen of the junkyard laughed haughtily at his inquiry. "You seek Fleach? My alchemist, my scholar? To what end? To take her from me, perhaps? Well, you shall not have her, but you may have what she concocted for my safety!"

With that, she opened her ragged robe, revealing a bandoleer of flasks. She snatched one from its strap and threw it at the robot, who didn't move to avoid it, confident in its construction. It should have suspected something when Red began to scramble away from the machine.

What was thought to be some ineffectual weapon thrown by a mad woman, was, when it impacted with its chest, something else, entirely. The chemical reacted with the collision and exploded with force enough to blast the surprised Questoid back into the base of another junk hill and partially bury it within.

Daisy gave another flask a toss, striking the ground near the still robot and causing the hill to avalanche over the Questoid with its shockwave.

The robot's burial was punctuated by Queen Daisy's triumphant laughter. "Axels to axels. Rust to rust!" she cackled, while Red called out to her.

"Daisy, c'mon down here! That thing's probably just getting its second wind, if robots can have that," he cautioned, which only brought out more of Daisy's imperious attitude.

"If it dares to rise and challenge me again, then I shall have to have it dismantled by inches," she stated.

Red sighed and waved her down. Sometimes, she could be so hard to be with, when she was like this, he thought, as she carefully descended from her hill.

The Questoid rested in its tomb of scrap metal, analyzing the chemical composition of the bomb that struck it, while its diagnostic and self-repair systems went to work.

The end result of the analysis was mercury fulminate. A record of Marcie's involvement in the Wacky and Rotten Racers' incident corroborated with what the woman had just said about Marcie making it for her. She was close, indeed, and so, with a few movements, the automaton began to exhume itself from the loose junk.

Red looked behind to see the resilient Questoid claw itself out of its burial mound, still intact, but no longer looking as pristine as it did before it left Greenman's house.

It wore heavy dents and scratches to its dusty and rust-coated upper torso, head and neck. A few magnets still clung to parts of its body, like remoras, making its movement awkward. Its chopped shoulder joint was in danger of failing and detaching, and the shockwave from the first flask had managed to overload the impact protection of one of its optics, cracking it into uselessness.

Other than that, the prototype was still eighty-six percent operational, as it shook off the detritus from its head, shoulders and back. It swiveled its head to lock its sight on the two humans who got in its way and started to walk towards them, murder in its remaining optic.

Red gestured to Daisy. "Daisy, flask me."

Daisy, understanding their need to deal with the Questoid, even in her junk drunken persona, passed a mercury fulminate flask to him. Red didn't waste time and threw it.

The Questoid raised its arm to shield its face from the oncoming bottle, unfortunately for it, it raised the arm with the bad shoulder. The blast drove it into a backwards tumble and it crashed into the gravel.

It got up again within seconds, but its brain flashed a damage report. The shockwave finished what Red's axe had started, ripping the arm completely off at the shoulder. The robot ignored the trauma, and resumed its stalking of Red and Daisy, leaving the arm wherever it landed, joining the countless number of parts and wrecks of the lot.

When it reached the spot where they stopped to attack it, they were gone. Like Marcie, they proved to be dangerous, capable of inflicting enough damage to hamper, or even stop its mission. Caution was recommended from here on out.

However, mission priority called for Marcie Fleach, and so, it resumed its search.

It crept by junk piles, stalked among the scrapheaps, and kept itself mindful of any more traps that the humans may have set, and gradually it began to feel something, the notion that because Marcie and her compatriots were forcing it to adapt more and more, it had become a better machine, as a result.

That caused an increase in its overall functionality, an inner drive, based on a possibility of failure that could ultimately end in its total destruction, weighed against the possibility of its success in proving the viability of its eventual series.

Its brain interpreted it as an example of dynamic probability assessment, but if it was human, the Questoid would have been said to have experienced genuine excitement in this hunt.

Red and Daisy snuck around a metal mountain, hoping to evade the robot, and ran into it around the next rise of junk and scrap. A piston-powered hand reached out and gripped Red's throat.

"Red!" Seeing this snapped Daisy out of her delusional state, but she couldn't use her flasks against it, he was too close, and the Questoid could dispatch him before she opened her cloak.

"Where is Marcie Fleach?" it asked, smoothly. "You hindered my mission, but you didn't end it. Tell me where she is, and I will disregard you. Please, decide."

Daisy was torn. Could she offer up her friend to save Red? Could she?

A loud cough from somewhere off in the distance took the decision from her. All eyes turned to see Marcie standing in the only industrial section of the lot, near the warehouses, garages, and work areas, where the wrecks and hulks that were brought in were broken down for parts and raw metal.

"I thought you were looking for me, _Quest-toy_ ," Marcie called out. "How did you know I'd come here, anyway?"

The Questoid, satisfied with the outcome, released Red and tossed him into a grateful Daisy, who caused both of them to fall to the ground. In an attempt not to provoke it further, they stayed there, while the machine strolled in Marcie's direction.

Where she exposed herself from was a logical place to hide, it thought. The high levels of electrical current from the vehicles and machinery could mask her from its sensors, by causing RF interference. If only it wasn't built by superior minds to fulfill its programming. It almost felt sorry for this stripling of a human. Almost.

"When your friend in the small car ran me over," it explained. "I activated the tracker that was installed in every Quest Industries vehicle. Following you was more efficient, afterwards."

"That's pretty clever...for future soda cans," Marcie taunted. She then ran back into the work area, weaving into the shadows of the utility vehicles, hoping the robot wouldn't run to give chase.

It didn't. It didn't need to. It knew where she was, now, and could easily overtake her when it had her cornered, which wouldn't be too long, then, it would finish off the others for the sake of tying up loose ends.

What it didn't expect, at least, not until it could kill her with its bear hand, was to hear her scream. That spurred it into a run.

Marcie was gone from its perception when it arrived, and it had to filter out the ambient noise of industry to try and isolate her. Then, it stiffened in reaction, as it caught a faint voice in the cacophony.

"Guys? Where are you?" Marcie asked, pained. "I can't-I can't hide in here all day, you know! Guys! C'mon, answer me. Where are you?"

The Questoid homed in on Marcie, like a wolf hearing the bleats of a lost lamb, desirous to make her last experience on Earth fatal and one-sided.

As it entered deeper in the area, the plaintive yelling became louder, until the automaton could almost pinpoint the location to about a few yards distant among the lot's equipment.

There. In a concrete and metal-walled pit within the shadow of a crane, came the sound. It smiled with its deathly face.

"Who's out there?" Marcie asked, pensively. "Is that you, guys?"

The Questoid slid down one of the inner walls of the opening and looked around for her. The walls were metal, as it could see, but had what looked like thin pipework running parallel across the walls' centers, so that they ran around the inner circumference of the pit.

It ignored this in favor of the bumpy, uneven cloth-covered flooring in there. Although it was programmed to approximate curiosity, it was thinking too much of its prey to be distracted, now. The only thing that it was starting to understand was that Marcie Fleach's body wasn't in the pit with him to be killed.

In the center of the pit, however, its steely foot crunched against something, a small, flat object. Moving its foot aside, it reached down to pick up a cell phone.

"Gotcha, soda can!" came the hated girl's voice from the tinny little speaker.

Suddenly, a force began to tug at the robot from all around it, weak, at first, but then with greater vigor. In confusion, it looked at the walls again, and the notion became as obvious to it, as it was too late. Electromagnetism.

At the moment, all the attractive walls could do was play an invisible, four-way game of tug-o-war, with the Questoid in the middle, safe, as long as it stood in the center of the pit. But now, it wondered if those walls' gauss levels would suddenly rise enough to turn its tug-o-war into it being drawn and quartered.

A sound of footsteps near the edge of the pit made the robot look up to see three teens, the oddly dressed woman from before, and lastly, the hated Marcie Fleach, looking insufferably smug in her seeming victory.

"Hi, there," Marcie said, good-naturedly. "What you're in is the latest in metal recycling technology. It's a shredder, in case you didn't know. However, like you, this shredder is state-of-the-art. The owner of the lot said so.

Jason further explained. "What you're feeling are the protective magnets in the walls. They're there to keep the metal from flying out and hurting soft humans, like workers, or even, us."

The Questoid said nothing. It could not hunt its prey, or escape this perfect trap, prepared with the perfect bait. All it could do was contemplate its failure, enjoy its hatred of Marcie, and wait for the end.

"Oh, the owner also said that it was brand new. Hasn't been broken in, yet," Lab Rat said, holding a cabled remote control, her thumb hovering over the thick, green button. "We told him we'd fix that."

It was then that the machine within the machine decide to speak, one last time. A query to the woman who helped defeat it.

"I must ask," it questioned her, its approximated curiosity, piqued. "Who are you?"

"My name is Lab Rat," she said, proudly. "And I'm here to protect Marcie Fleach." To punctuate that point, she pressed the button.

Under its feet, the robot felt the vibrations of powerful motors humming strong and loud. The cloth that hid the bottom of the pit, and the robot's feet, suddenly exploded into a hundred tiny, ragged-ended remnants, revealing the curved, sharp, case-hardened metal teeth of the shredder.

As the oily pieces of old cloth floated down around the maimed Questoid, it had to wonder if Dr. Quest and his fellow designers might have had their prototype succeed, if only they had worked on it just a _little_ bit more.

Anything else the Questoid might have thought became so much static and the gibberish of broken code, ripped away from its rent software, as easily as the ravenous shredder finally ripped apart its body.


	8. Chapter 8

"No way!" exclaimed Jason upon hearing the news of who had sent the Questoid prototype to Marcie. "Dr. Quest? _The_ Dr. Quest? Whoa!"

"I know," said Marcie. "That's what _I_ said, too. It blows the mind, huh?"

"Wow, Quest must be really threatened of you, somehow," Jason gushed. "You are _sooo_ lucky!" He covered his mouth, but the faux pas was already committed.

Marcie shrugged. "Actually, he was sent on the behest of Greenman to punch my ticket, but thanks, all the same," she said, sarcastically.

Marcie saw Lab Rat, Red and Daisy approach the lot's entrance and the teens' respective rides. However, she had to do a double take when she saw what was welded, as an ornament, over of the handlebars of Red's motorcycle.

"Red," Marcie moaned, staring at the crudely decapitated steel head of the Questoid. "Did you have to put that thing on top of your bike?"

"Are you kidding?" Red asked, with a Cheshire Cat grin. "Nobody's gonna miss it. It's junk, now, so I'm putting this baby to some good use. My bike's gonna look so cool, now."

Daisy gave Red's arm a proud squeeze. "See, I _am_ rubbing off on him."

Lab Rat gave a weary sigh of fulfillment, of a mission completed, as she strolled over to Marcie and her Clue Cruiser, getting in. "I'm just glad my idea worked. Placing your cell phone in the shedder, and having you call from mine, fooled that robot, like a champ."

"Yeah," Marcie jested. "But I lose more cell phones that way."

That was rewarded with a light chuckle from the woman, before she said, "Well, now that I'm no longer needed. I'll be on my way back to Gatorsburg. I have a lab, there, and it can't do a thing without me."

Marcie perked up. "You have a lab, there? Why didn't you tell me? Give me your email address. We'll keep in touch."

"I'd love to, Marcie," Lab said, suddenly sliding into the driver's seat. "But, I have to keep my identity a secret, and I'm afraid that means, no emails."

_No emails..._

That sounded like what Velma had told her, and even though she respected the communications ban, she didn't like it. She disliked what happened next even more.

Lab slipped Marcie's car key into the Cruiser's ignition, and peeled out before Marcie had time to think of a reason for the theft. At least, now, she knew what the techs felt earlier.

As the VW faded from view in a cloud of gravel dust, a perplexed and worried Marcie looked to her equally shocked comrades, as the sun finally set for the evening,

"Um, can anyone give me lift home?" she asked them.

* * *

Daisy parked her car behind the Clue Cruiser. A grateful Marcie gave Daisy a weary wave good night, as Daisy drove for home, and she arrived at her front door. She opened it to a lit home. Winslow must have finished packing his office, and came back.

"Dad! I'm home," Marcie called out. There was no answer.

She shrugged. He'd be back, she thought, as she schlepped up the stairs, eager to fall into bed, and sleep through the next ice age.

Upon reaching the hallway, Marcie saw that the small, wooden stairs that led up to the attic were lowered, and remained thus, while she cautiously walked up them.

Marcie mentally prepared herself to lob Insta-Ice at whatever intruder had penetrated the house. Perhaps, they came in from the roof and entered the house through the attic, or broke in and are looking for valuables in there. The second sounded more logical than the first, when she remembered that the stairs had to lowered from outside the attic to enter it.

She crept up one step, then another, listening for sounds of burglary. The sounds of sobbing, however, was a genuine surprise to her.

Marcie picked up her pace, ascending, and eventually entering, the storage space. Sitting quietly, on a dusty chest next to the attic's sole window, was Lab Rat. On her lap was an open book.

Marcie stood a respectful distance from her, and asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry, Marcie."

"I won't ask why you took my car, but how did you get in?" Marcie asked.

"Electromagnetic skeleton key," Lab said. "Better than your Quick Key, I think."

"Okay," Marcie said. "Why are you in my attic?"

Lab looked away from the girl. "I thought I had a little more time. That's why I left you in the junk yard. I just needed some time."

The answer was as cryptic, as it was vague, and didn't satisfy Marcie's queries. "Time for what, Lab?"

"Time for..." Lab Rat began, reluctantly, and Marcie looked at her in askance. This capable woman, who helped her take down a high-tech killer, couldn't answer a simple question? Time for...what?

The sudden expression on Lab Rat's face was so tortured, Marcie feared the woman was physically ill, stepping back when Lab said nothing further, and quickly threw something small down into the floor, filling the attic with thick, acrid smoke.

_'Smoke grenade,'_ Marcie thought, as she held her breath and ran in the general direction of the chest and Lab Rat, but the cloud made its way through her nostrils, irritating their linings, causing her to breath in to sneeze, which, in turn, made her cough.

Her discomfiture was enough for her to stop and make her consider running back to clearer air, when a strong breeze was suddenly felt, sucking the miasma out of the room through the now-visible open window. By the time the room had cleared, Lab Rat was gone.

Marcie ran to the window, stuck her head out and called Lab Rat's name, hearing her voice echo through the otherwise quiet neighborhood.

She went back into the attic and looked around. Nothing was taken or disturbed, and the only thing that was ever used was the book Lab was holding, left open on the lid of the chest Marcie now sat upon.

She picked up the book, an old photo album, and looked on its page. In it held a collection of old photos, but one in particular, caught Marcie's attention.

A young, brunette woman, her energy spent, yet her eyes proud of what she held, rested in a hospital bed. In her arms, also rested a young woman, far younger than her, but also, far more precious. A baby girl.

On the lower corner of the picture, a name, in cursive, was inscribed in lasting, faded ink. _Marcia Anna Fleach_.

If nothing else convinced her of the identity of the wayward Lab Rat, then the photo, wet with her tears, did.

Marcie looked at the open window, and the lonely, star-speckled night.

_"Mom..."_ she whispered in awe, emotion, and sadness.


End file.
